


Hold my hand as I'm lowered

by Enjoloras



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, M/M, Trans Enjolras, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 06:03:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 71,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3799591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enjoloras/pseuds/Enjoloras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre had once said that when the heart is fundamentally bad this disobedient disposition gives the world killers and criminals, the ones who lurk like cats in the shadows, but that when the heart is fundamentally good it gives the world heroes, martyrs and fools - often which are all one in the same. </p><p>Enjolras fell into this second category most firmly.</p><p>He had been born a daughter by the name of Marie-Claudette Enjolras, and he had never understood his parents' insistence on maintaining this belief. He had known from as early as one could know oneself that he was not a daughter at all, but a son.</p><p>-</p><p>Amid plans for revolution and a torrid affair, Enjolras struggles with secrets that could be damming to everything he has worked towards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The last of the candles flickered on the table, the light in the room fading with them to a dim glow.

Straining his eyes against the waning candlelight, Enjolras finally conceded that he should call it a night. He had been working all day, crafting letters to the other political factions of Paris detailing their plans. Their group had made good progress tonight, tossing around dangerous ideas that would see them arrested outside the safety of the cafe, and now Enjolras alone remained in the Musain, solitary now that they others had taken their leave.

Change would soon be upon them; Enjolras could feel it in his very core, as though the beat of his heart had come to be in accord with the beat of progress. 

Whispers of discontent were now spreading through Paris, in wineshops and back alleys, through beggars and schoolboys alike, and Enjolras' heart soared to know of it. It was a difficult feat, accomplished by sending street gamin back and forth with sensitive information, but it was working. Their revolution was as of now only a small flame - it was vulnerable to the elements around it, and desperately in need of careful fostering, but with the right tinder and a breath of oxygen, it would soon set all of Paris alight. It would be a funeral pyre for corruption and inequality, and from the ashes of the monarchy a new and better future would rise like a phoenix.

Enjolras had vowed that he would do all in his power to ensure that future.

He slipped his work into his bag, stuffing the more incriminating documents into a tear in the lining of his coat, and left the Musain as the last few candles finally guttered out.

It was a beautiful night, even with the last chill of winter clinging stubbornly to the spring air; the stars were all out, dotting the dark blue sky with silver, and the smell of woodsmoke drifted on the breeze. Enjolras loved it; his heart had become so entwined with Paris that many jested the city was his mistress, and maybe it wasn't far from the truth, for he could not deny he had come to be scandalously intimate with her workings. Dirty and loud though it was, the life he had built for himself in Paris was a vast improvement from the life he had known before. Here, he was free.

To know him now it would have amazed his friends to learn that he had not come to Paris willingly - far from it, in fact. The city he now adored had once been his place of exile. He recalled when he had first come to the city, and how the smell that assaulted his nose from his carriage window had caused him to recoil in disgust. He imagined that if he were to return to his family's grand estate in Limoges the smell of the clean country air might now have the same effect the dirty streets once had upon his senses. 

He had been raised out in the countryside, born the only child to parents with more wealth than sense. It would have been inspirational to say that it was an accidental encounter with some less fortunate soul that first sparked Enjolras' passion for change, but it would have been a lie. It was a simple fact that he had always been equal parts unruly and generous, even before he had developed an interest in political affairs - some are simply born with a disobedient disposition.

Combeferre had once said that when the heart is fundamentally bad this disobedient disposition gives the world killers and criminals, the ones who lurk like cats in the shadows, but that when the heart is fundamentally good it gives the world heroes, martyrs and fools - often which are all one in the same. 

Enjolras fell into this second category most firmly.

He had been born a daughter by the name of Marie-Claudette Enjolras, and he had never understood his parents' insistence on maintaining this belief. He had known from as early as one could know oneself that he was not a daughter at all, but a son.

Knowing this about himself he had struggled to understand why his father was not more pleased by him; after three stillborn boys and countless miscarriages he had come along, strong and healthy and pink-cheeked. He was the much longed for son and heir, and yet his father, a man deeply concerned with legacy, had not seemed happy. It had confused him when he was small, but as Enjolras had grown he had learned the bitter truth of it; a son with a woman's anatomy was, to his father, a poor substitute for one with the traditional parts.

At age seven he had been caught trying to cut his hair short with shears he had stolen from his mother's dressmaker when her back was turned, and been fiercely reprimanded for it. His mother had tried to hide the mess he had made of his curls from his father, stuffing him into bonnets for the greater part of a year until his hair grew back, and the seamstress had later been dismissed from their service for letting him access the shears. Enjolras still did not forgive himself for that; now that he was older and wiser to the world, he realized he may have cost an innocent woman her only form in income. It kept him awake at night sometimes, wondering if she had had a family to provide for.

Realising slowly that the way he felt was unacceptable, Enjolras had attempted to push it down inside of himself. He had smothered it and buried it and stuffed it into the dark corners of himself, but he had never been able to kill it. He had tried to be a woman, tried to be the dutiful daughter - he truly had. He knew it would have been a simpler existence to live the way his parents expected - perhaps not a happier one, no, but easier.

And so he tried, but no matter what he did he could not change himself. He felt a stranger in his own skin, and the dresses and bonnets his mother bought for him only exacerbated those feelings. He did not think himself at all mad, but then he supposed that the mad never did.

The older he got the worse the feelings became - it became all-consuming, something Enjolras could not stifle no matter how hard he tried.

How many times can an only daughter be caught dressing herself as a boy before her parents intervene? Apparently to Monsieur and Madame Enjolras, the answer was three times.

The first time his mother had caught him - she had found him tearing strips of fabric from his petticoat, using them to bind his chest flat. He had only been thirteen, and the recent changes to his body had displeased him so intensely that he wanted nothing more than to undo them somehow. His mother had snatched the ruined petticoat from him, tossing it into the fire so that his father would not learn of it.

'You must not do that again,' she had said, 'Do you want for people to think you mad?'

The second time he had been fifteen, and she had discovered him in her bedroom, wearing one of his father's waistcoats. It did not fit him of course, but that was part of the appeal to Enjolras - it was not like the figure-hugging gowns and stays that his mother put him in. It took all shape from his figure, concealed the slight curve of his waist and chest that he so disliked. Upon catching him his mother had sent him to confession, and he had gone, asking god to free him from the feelings he was having, or the body that was the cause of them.

The third time had altered the course of his life forever.

He had been seventeen, and his father had been the one to catch him, stumbling upon him in the servant's quarters, garbed in full male attire that he had paid the stable boy for. His father was a harsh man, but never before had he raised a hand to Enjolras in anger.

That day was the end of that.

He had struck him across the face, hard enough to leave a bruise and split his lip. It had been so vicious that Enjolras had not even been able to cry, so shocked, so frightened that nothing had come to him. When he had brought his hand to his mouth there was blood there. Sometimes he imagined he still felt the burn of the mark on his cheek, branding him the way prisoners had their number scorched into their skin.

He was dragged from the room still in the stable boy's clothes, and thrown down onto his knees in the parlour before his mother. His father denounced him as unwell - a terrible sickness of the mind, he had said - and announced that plans to send him to a hospital were to be made immediately.

Enjolras had once had an aunt who had been sent to a hospital of the same nature. His mother's sister, he recalled. Her child had died - a sickly boy taken swiftly by pneumonia - and she had come to live with them in the following months, veiled all in black and an air of misery. Her sobs would sometimes keep him awake at night, he remembered. She was more like a ghost than a living woman he had thought, and sometimes he had hidden under his bedsheets, certain that she had come to haunt their house.

She had gone to a hospital for melancholia soon after and she had not come back.

His mother had come to his defense. She had begged and pleaded for him to reconsider, insisting that Enjolras need only the company of other young women to cure him of his affliction. 'Please,' she had all but shrieked, hanging off his arm to prevent him from striking Enjolras again, ' _Please_ , she is my only living child!'.

His father had eventually relented, and Enjolras had been sent upstairs to his room without supper to nurse his lip.

The following morning Enjolras had ventured downstairs to find that his whole life had been packed away into a trunk. He was put on a carriage bound for Paris and bid a hasty farewell. His parents had friends there, friends who had a daughter of a similar age to Enjolras. 'She is a perfectly becoming young lady,' his mother had said as she wept and kissed his face, 'It will help you to have a companion,'. Enjolras thought that perhaps they were right - maybe associating with a girl his own age would amend him?

'When you are better, when you are cured of this, you can come home to us, sweet girl,' his mother had said, tucking a curl of hair behind his ear.

His father had not said goodbye.

Four years had passed since then. They had been correct in a way - sending him to Paris had indeed helped him, though not in the fashion he imagined they had intended. In sending him away they had unwittingly freed him from a life he hated - a life of mind-numbing garden parties, unwelcome marriage proposals and uncomfortable stays - and led him directly to his purpose in life.

It was through coming to live in Paris that he had first noticed the plight of the working classes; the realisation had come over him all at once, as though a veil had been lifted back and the real world revealed to him in all it's ugliness. He had never known the sting of poverty or the ache of hunger; he had lived a life of luxury, ignorant of the suffering around him. He could not go on that way; he had a responsibility. The jewels his mother adorned him with were worth enough to feed a family for half a year, and they had been the first thing to go, dropped into the tin of an old woman in rags as she begged on the streets.

Enjolras had lived with his mother's friends for a whole year before they grew sick of him, frustrated with the way he forewent etiquette for education and fashion for politics. The girl that was supposed to be Enjolras' companion made no secret of the fact she found him insufferable. 'Severe, blunt and outwardly rude,' she had said once, to his face. Her mother was equally exasperated, writing home to his mother that Enjolras was 'unruly beyond all reason!'. They made it abundantly clear that they thought him a lost cause, and Enjolras did not disagree with them in the slightest.

He'd soon left their home, using the allowance his father sent to rent humble lodgings in a rundown part of the city. He'd had himself discreetly fitted for waistcoats and thrown his dresses in the hearth, watching as every last trace of Monsieur and Madame Enjolras' treasured only daughter had burnt with them.

He would never again pretend he was anything but that man that he was. He had tried for so long to extinguish what was inside of him, but finally he had decided there was nothing he could do but embrace it. If this was the way he was, then it was surely for some preordained reason. He could not believe it was accidental that he felt as he did.

Watching his dresses burn had felt both parts a death and a glorious rebirth.

He wrote to his parents rarely, keeping the letters concise and curt, and they continued to send money every month without fail. He did not question it. His father seemed only happy to pay him to stay away; he would disgrace the family if he returned - something Enjolras secretly relished in - and it must have seemed worth sending a modest sum of money from month to month to avoid the scandal that would attach itself to the family if their daughter returned to Limoges dressed as a man. 

It was shortly after he found his own lodgings that he'd begun to attend classes, eager to soak in the education that was allowed to him as a man. It was through these classes that he had met Combeferre and Courfeyrac, finding a seat near them during one of his lectures and debating the professor's views with them. A mutual interest in the struggles of their fellow man had quickly bound the three of them as brothers, and soon after Les Amis De L'ABC had been formed in the upstairs room of a tiny, unassuming café.

The others had flocked to them over time, alone or in small groups, and now they were lighting a spark of resistance in Paris. 

It was not to his own lodgings that he now walked, however. He had in mind a detour that, he thought to himself, his feet had become far too accustomed to taking of late. It was not far from the Musain, barely more than five minutes on foot. The room in question stood above a bakery, and radiating from the one dim window he could see the faint glow of candlelight, a signal that the occupant was indeed awake as he had expected. It was a crooked looking building, as many on the street were; poorly constructed, jutting out slightly as though the top half of the building was too cumbersome and heavy for the bottom half.

He slipped up the stairs quietly, concealed by shadow, and knocked softly on the door. The swiftness with which it was answered made Enjolras shamefully aware that the man inside had been anticipating him. His visits had become so frequent now that Enjolras could nearly count the seconds between his knocking and the door opening. 

“Monsieur Enjolras,” Grantaire's voice was light, his eyes brightening at the sight of him. Grantaire made a point to call himself ugly - even joked about it - but Enjolras found him to be exceptionally handsome when he smiled.

“I'm honoured that such a distinguished guest would grace me with his presence at this hour.” he said with an exaggerated bow, "It is like a visit from the Dauphin of France!"

Enjolras ignored the monarchist slight, removing his gloves and stepping inside. There was no need for any invitation; they had long passed that formality.

“I see that you have tidied the place since I was last here.” he observed, glancing around the room.

“Tidied! Ha, that is a truly loose use of the word,” Grantaire laughed, “I piled some useless old canvases out of sight and made away with some of the wine bottles. I can only say for so long that I am keeping them to place candles in before my laziness makes itself apparent.”

Enjolras felt his lips curl into a small smile, “It looks nice.” he said.

“Nice? You wound me with your mediocre wording! Nice from the lips of a man like you is an insult!” Grantaire said, gesturing to take Enjolras' coat for him. Enjolras gave it up readily, feeling a shiver run down his spine at how reverently Grantaire slipped it from his shoulders, “You are too strong in your convictions for 'nice'. Nice is a word you use when paying lip service to your professors, whom you think wrong in their opinions beyond all redemption. Nice is a word without any weight in either direction. Even unpleasant would be preferable, for at least that is a reaction--"

“Must you find cause to argue about everything?” Enjolras said, feeling his cheeks burn at the look he received in response. The hypocrisy of his words was not lost on him, but he was too tired for debates. 

“You live and breathe for arguments,” Grantaire protested, “Is it not my job to be your foil? If I do not make a martyr of myself for the sake of improving your points, who will?”

“You talk about martyrdom as though you know even the first thing about it.” Enjolras said. The direction of the conversation made a sharp lump form in his throat. Lately their plans had become more and more ambitious, the calls for revolution growing louder and louder, and Enjolras could feel the tension charging in the air, like the calm before the first crack of lightning in a thunderstorm.

The city was balancing on a knife's edge, and if anyone was to be cut when the blade finally fell, it would be Enjolras.

Grantaire sensed it too, for all the laughter had gone from his face.

“I know enough of it." he said, “For example, I know a man who'll make himself one before this ridiculousness is finished and done."

"Do not harass me with your disapproval again." Enjolras said, "Spare me your skepticism, it does no good."

"Neither does martyrdom. Do you think it'll be worth it, Enjolras, to throw your life away for some feeble vision of the future? Do you think that your Patria will weep for you? She is a cruel mistress; she will forget about you and your sacrifice in a moment! You will not even be dragged through the dirt of history. A hero to some, a criminal to others, it matters very little. You will be tossed in an unmarked grave the same as any insurgent." 

Enjolras stiffened; “Better an unmarked grave than one with a woman's name.”

“Aha! Of course! You are as stubborn as you are beautiful!”

“I didn't come here to argue about my plans.” Enjolras said, bristling, “It is late, and I am tired. Perhaps I should not have come.” He reached to seize his coat back, suddenly indignant, but Grantaire's hand against his cheek brought him to an immediate stop.

“Then lets not talk of it any more,” Grantaire said, averting his gaze, “You're right, of course. It was poor conduct of me to bring it up, and poor conversation to prelude what I imagine you are here for. One should not attempt to seduce with thoughts of death. I should stop taking advice from Prouvaire, perhaps. That is the trouble, mistaking Romantic for romantic." 

He wanted to say more, Enjolras knew, and he wondered why he didn't. He swallowed hard, choosing not to ask. It was less painful that way.

“We won't talk of it any more.” Enjolras agreed, and after a moment of thought, leaned forwards to press his lips chastely against Grantaire's.

The chastity of the kiss did not last long - it rarely ever did. The was an unspoken passion between them at all times; Enjolras had thought it might dwindle with time, like the wick of a candle that had been left constantly burning. He had been wrong. Grantaire pulled him flush against his body, parting Enjolras' lips to deepen the kiss, and the hand not resting against his cheek migrated to the back of Enjolras' head to claim a fistful of curls. He dropped Enjolras' coat where they stood.

Enjolras broke the kiss with a shaky sigh, fumbling clumsily to free himself of his cravat, and allowed himself to be led across the room to the mattress on the floor. He was willing to forget the slights and insults Grantaire slung at him. He was willing to forget the future, and the imminent threat his ideals placed him under. He tipped his head back as Grantaire's lips brushed his neck, hands now making deft work of removing his clothes. He was willing, oh, he was so very, _very_ willing. 

-

“What will become of us, when this is all over?” Grantaire asked quietly when they were done, laying together beneath the thin sheets.

“If we both should live,” he ventured, when Enjolras tilted his chin to look at him with confusion. They both knew how unlikely that outcome. Enjolras had chosen a route that demanded his death, and there was nothing more to it. “What will happen?”

“I don't know,” Enjolras whispered, allowing Grantaire his flight of fancy, “What would you like to become of us, when it's all over?”

“I'm unsure,” Grantaire said, fingers tracing intricate patterns on Enjolras' skin, “I have a softness for Paris, but I suppose I should like to leave it eventually. She is not very forgiving to those who grow old, and time does not pick and choose. We could find a place in the countryside, where we could be left in peace. Your revolution would be done with, and the world would be all that you hoped it might be, and you would have no need to take up arms. We could grow old and bored of each other's company somewhere with no scrutiny. No one would think anything of it; many bachelors take up lodgings together, after all. There is nothing suspicious about that."

Enjolras smiled weakly, laying his head against his chest, “Continue," he urged, feeling Grantaire's arms tighten around him.

“I know that you are not a woman - do not think that I think otherwise,” he said, “But I should like to marry you, if you'd allow it. It feels the honourable thing to do. I'm not a man of much honour, I know. I am well acquainted with my vices. But you bring forth in me all that is good and decent, and it seems good and decent that we should legitimise our affair. I do not fully believe that god is real, and if he is he has such a dark sense of humour that I cannot find it in me to care for him, but I would take precautions with your soul," he joked, "A summertime wedding could be pleasant, if you were for it."

Enjolras closed his eyes, “I'd allow it.” he said, “I believe that I could endure an hour in a dress if it would ease your conscience. Though that you should worry about my virtue is laughable. I believe god might take more umbrage with my state of being than with you taking me to bed without a wedding band."

"I do not think so." Grantaire whispered, "You are clearly an angel, mon  chéri, and angels do not prescribe to mortal ideals of gender."

Enjolras laughed slightly, "If you insist."

"I do."

"As for marriage, if you are seeking a dowry to live off, I fear I may disappoint." Enjolras said, "My parents would not be likely to find you a suitable match for me.”

“Ah, your parents would despise me.”

“As they despise me. We have far more in common than we often think.” Enjolras mused.

"Then we are a _perfect_ match!" Grantaire said, amused.

"It might seem."

“What of children?”

“Children? I've never considered the idea. I would reckon myself poorly qualified to care for one.”

“A pity." Grantaire said, "I have always been quite fond of them.” 

“Perhaps one, then.” Enjolras murmured, painfully aware that all of this would likely come to naught when the barricades went up.

For a long while they lay there in silence, and then Grantaire pressed a tender kiss to his shoulder, “You should sleep." he said, "I would loathe myself for keeping you awake. I am sure you have important business to attend to tomorrow, and every day after that.”

 

* * *

 

When Enjolras woke it was far later than he had intended. He could hear birds outside, yet from the dirty windowpane he could see that it was still dark out. Whatever the hour, Grantaire was still awake, extra candles now burning. He was sat half-dressed in the corner of the room at his easel, fingers guiding a paintbrush dexterously over canvas. For a long while Enjolras lay there in silence, watching Grantaire as he painted, admiring the fixed look in his eyes, the thoughtful bite of his lip.

It still seemed a strange thing to him that he and Grantaire had come to be lovers.

The skeptic was the foil to his every ideal, and it sometimes seemed to Enjolras that he must have been put on earth for the sole reason of challenging him. It was as though fate had thought to temper him with his opposite, aligning the stars just so that they would collide and fall into bed together. He had infuriated Enjolras when he had first started to attend their meetings, coming to the Musain only for the company. He had given little consideration to their cause, often openly criticizing it, and yet Enjolras had found himself unable to banish him from the group. Several times Combeferre had suggested he do so ('If he is going to distract you so, send him away,') but each time Enjolras had been unable to go through with it.

Grantaire would sit at the back of the room, claiming ignorance and reeking of wine, only to suddenly reveal himself to be one of the most intelligent and eloquent men in the room. He would say his piece and then fall silent and sombre again as though it had never happened, investing himself in his drink. A silver tongue and wit as sharp as a dagger and all he chose to do with it was land blows upon Enjolras' arguments; it was a waste. 

Grantaire had managed to make Enjolras feel as no man had ever made him feel before - a fool. To have his arguments so easily eviscerated had bruised his ego, and for that Enjolras had disdained him.

Over time disdain had given way to curiosity, and curiosity to wanting.

It had come crashing to a head after a sharp exchange of opinions regarding Rosseau, and had ended in the two of them pushed up against a wall in a passionate embrace, all of Enjolras' complicated feelings apparently choosing to break the surface in the form of desire.

He had been so lost to the many new sensations that he had not even considered Grantaire might be shocked by what he found – or did not find – in his trousers until it was too late. Grantaire had simply let out a small utterance of surprise upon his discovery, and then kissed him again. They had proceeded as though nothing were out of the ordinary, going about it as though they were seasoned lovers.

And so Enjolras - proud, rigid, respected Enjolras - had lost his virtue up against the dirty wall of an alleyway outside the Musain.

His parents would have disowned him in an instant if they had known. Sleeping with Grantaire was not just a personal preference, but a fierce defiance of everything his family had once planned for him.

Later, Grantaire would tell him he was a well-read man, and that such things, whispered about and taboo though they were, were not unheard of.

“Are you a Mademoiselle or a Monsieur? Are you Aphrodite or Apollo?” Grantaire had asked airily when they were done.

“I am a man.” Enjolras had said fiercely, and Grantaire had nodded. They had never spoken of his anatomy again, though he was sure Grantaire was curious about the matter. He had tried to get him to talk of it once or twice, but Enjolras had made it apparent that such things were not to be discussed.

Truly, Enjolras had never thought he would take a lover at all, let alone that it might be someone like Grantaire. The idea of a lover had always been unappealing to him. Sexual endeavors had seemed a waste of time and an unnecessary risk, and romantic ones a glaring weakness, since so many people seemed to fall to pieces over them. He had wanted very much to avoid those traps. Aside from these obvious observations, he had been utterly unaware that he could even enjoy sex; his mother had prepared him for a passive role in such matters, one of laying on his back with his legs apart for a husband his father had picked out for him. He recalled the absolute horror on Grantaire's face when he had confessed this to him - 'For someone so wealthy, you have been so poorly educated!' he had cried, and vowed to show Enjolras the full extent to which he could enjoy it.

He sat up in bed, wrapping the sheets around his shoulders as he did.

“What are you doing?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Grantaire didn't startle. “Painting.” he answered.

“I am aware of that.” Enjolras said, stretching slightly. It felt good to be free of his bindings. “I was inquiring as to the subject.”

“You should have been more specific, then,” Grantaire said, still scrutinizing his work, “It is a commissioned piece. I rarely receive them, and I am no doubt disappointing, but I charge less than the paint is worth and some people want their loved ones painted without the price-tag that comes of the more accomplished painters." 

Enjolras felt a twinge of disappointment that he himself was not the subject of Grantaire's work. An uncharacteristically vain notion he thought, as he left the bed to go to Grantaire's side. He hugged the sheets tightly around himself, hoping that standing by the candles would at least give off more warmth. The painting was beautiful, and he had no idea why Grantaire made a point to sell himself so short. It was a young boy, no more than five years of age, finely dressed and rosy cheeked.

“He comes from wealth,” Enjolras assumed, unable to keep the scorn from his voice, “You take your employment from the upper class?”

Grantaire gave a small snort, “There is certainly no employment from the working class, I shall say that! What man with mouths to feed has money to squander on a poor excuse of a painting? Do not be so quick to judge, Enjolras. Sometimes you speak as if you forget your roots. I would wager your parents have some painting of you somewhere, cherub of a child that I'm sure you were, all golden ringlets and pink cheeks. Ah, I bet you were delightful.”

“I will not forget my roots but neither will I sympathise with them.” Enjolras said, defensive.

“That may be so, but have some heart; many parents like to have their children painted if they die. I believe it is both sentiment and a strange curiosity with death. I should think you would be familiar with that, oh martyred one.”

“He is dead?”

“When I saw him in his coffin to paint him, he appeared so. Or should you like us to find Combeferre? Perhaps a second opinion---”

“Do not mock me,” Enjolras muttered, “Are you painting from memory, then?”

Grantaire shook his head, “I had only a little left to do. I planned to finish work on it far earlier, yet I attended your meeting, instead.” he said, cleaning off his brush, “I am sorry I let you sleep for so long. I did not want to wake you. It's a rare thing for you to look so peaceful.”

Enjolras didn't respond, still staring at the painting, now lost in thought.

He thought of his dreams and his ideals and all that he was willing to give for them, and wondered, fleetingly, if his parents would care if he turned up dead as a result. Would they commission such a piece in his memory?

His mother would weep, he thought; he could easily imagine her standing at his graveside, her face shrouded by a veil of black lace, sobbing over the pale marble of his headstone. When he tried to envision his father at her side it became somewhat more difficult to conjure. 

More than this though, Enjolras wondered if he would even want them to care. Grantaire's earlier words had struck hard. He would rather be buried nameless beside his friends and brothers than with all the extravagance that would be afforded to him as a woman of high birth.

What a fine thing it would be to have a portrait of himself as he was - as he should have been. If he had one then perhaps, when all this was over, he would be remembered not as the disgraced only daughter of Monsieur and Madame Enjolras, but as the man that he was.

“Perhaps you should paint me.” he said.

Silence greeted his words. Grantaire set his brush down as though he had not heard them.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras pressed, “I said that perha---”

“I heard you.” Grantaire's voice was unusually harsh. He stood, not looking at him, “And I refuse.”

“And why? I can pay you, truly---”

“I do not want money from you, Monsieur. You know why. You have made your decision, Enjolras, I am aware of this,” he was visibly shaking, “But if I cannot persuade you otherwise - and heaven help the fool that tries - then I do not want to think about it. Had we not agreed not to talk any more of it? I thought we had. I was quite certain, though maybe the wine has addled my brain..."

“Grantaire...”

“Perhaps you should leave.” Grantaire shouldered past him, picking up items of Enjolras' clothing as he went and passing them to him, “The sun is coming up. You surely wouldn't want someone seeing you leave here. Forming an innocent explanation as to why you are here so early might prove difficult. I suppose you could claim you came to scold me for my behaviour at the last meeting, no doubt I did something to incur your disapproval. It shouldn't be too hard to fabricate some reason why I have displeased you." 

Enjolras sighed, dressing quickly, “May I see you again tonight?” he said.

Grantaire didn't acknowledge his question, instead picking up a half-empty wine bottle from the table and pulling out the cork with his teeth.

“Are you going to see me out, or just drink yourself into a stupor?” Enjolras said, hearing the resentment creep into his voice.

“You are familiar with where the door is, are you not?” Grantaire mumbled, "You ought to be, by now." He did not seem angry, rather more defeated than anything, and as he sat back down on the mattress he took a deep swig from the bottle.

Enjolras pulled on his coat, cast him one last look, and took his leave.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The sun had almost risen when Enjolras made it back to his lodgings.

When he had first left the home of his mother's friends he had lived alone; the rooms he rented had suited him well enough for a while, modest and inexpensive, but they were prone to leaks, and the neighbours had been unsavoury to say the least. He would hear them fighting at night, roaring drunk, and find himself waking to check the locks on his door. When he and Combeferre had become friends and the medical student had suggested they find rooms together in a nicer part of the city, Enjolras had accepted without pausing for thought.

He would later claim that he accepted because living with Combeferre proved more convenient for their plans, but the truth was that Enjolras had been afraid. He knew who he was; he bound his chest tightly and dressed befitting of a man. He saw himself as so, and held his posture thus, but he could not fix the way he had been made.

However he may have liked to he could not take the softness from his jaw or the redness from his lips. His eyelashes were remarkably long, his cheeks rosy, his fingers slender and delicate. Without his bindings his body was very distinctly a woman's. The cruel truth was that for someone with a young woman's body, living alone in Paris was a dangerous affair.

He had once been accosted by a man stumbling out of a nearby opium den who had apparently thought to buy an hour with him, perhaps mistaking him for one of the working girls that frequented the establishment. The brute had cornered Enjolras in a dark part of the street, shoving a sous down the front of his shirt and addressing him as a 'strangely dressed girl, but pretty'. Fortunately the man's balance had been compromised by the drug, and it had been easy enough for Enjolras to shove him away and make his escape.

Though unscathed the encounter had brought home the frightening reality of his situation, and Enjolras had started to walk the long way home to avoid the opium den from then on.

When he and Combeferre had taken up lodgings together they had found a modest apartment in a safer part of town, and Enjolras had slept better for it. It was well-furnished, with an extra room for a study that Combeferre had wasted no time in stocking with a collection of interesting literature. Enjolras revelled in this; often as a child he would sneak into his father's library, only to be scolded for it. He would stand on his tiptoes to pull down books on politics and history, sometimes even medicine and law, and hide beneath a table to read them. His father would banish him to bed when he caught him, telling him that a woman was to stick to her embroidery and dresses.

Despite this Enjolras would always find himself back in the library when his father was away on business.

It was a fine thing to finally have unlimited access to all the knowledge he craved; in truth he had been envious of Combeferre's collection when they had first become friends, but he had quickly come to learn of Combeferre's generosity.

They lived together like brothers, and shared in all.

It was unavoidable that this intimate knowledge of each other's lives had also come to include Enjolras' unusual situation; Combeferre was a man of keen observation, and after knowing Enjolras for little more than a week he had quietly pulled him aside to speak with him as they left a lecture together. At first he had assumed he was a woman posing as a man to receive an education, and Enjolras hadn't the right words to vocalize his feelings, or explain why that was wrong. He had tried, and Combeferre, to his credit, had listened calmly.

Combeferre had gone away from their conversation in thoughtful silence, and Enjolras had spent a torturous week racked with fear that he would expose him.

Instead he had come back to him with a stack of books, expressed a genuine desire to help him, and together they had spent the next few months pouring over everything they could find on the matter. It was from this that Enjolras had learned, to his astonishment, that he was not the only person to feel the way he did. It had made his existence far less lonely.

Enjolras had known then that he had found a friend for life in Combeferre.

-

It was warm when he let himself into the apartment; there were still embers glowing in the hearth, and the smell of coffee hung in the air, suggesting Combeferre had waited up for his return.

“I see that you're finally home,” Almost on cue, Combeferre appeared in the doorway to the study as Enjolras began to unbutton his coat. He looked exhausted, though between schoolwork and their meetings that was not a novel look on either of them. 

“Well observed.”

“I was concerned. You were gone all evening.”

“I am very sorry, father,” Enjolras said sarcastically, “I shan't go wandering without a chaperone again.”

“Were you with Grantaire?”

Enjolras didn't answer. He let the question hang there as he hung up his coat and loosened his cravat, pulling free the documents he had stashed in the lining of his coat. 

Combeferre sighed, “I will take your silence as an affirmative, then.” he said, following Enjolras as he made his way into the study.

"You know that's where I was."

“I did not want to presume. You need to sleep.” Combeferre said, as he seated himself in the high-backed chair and opened a book across his lap.

“I am perfectly fine.” Enjolras insisted, pretending to be thoroughly engrossed in the documents he had just retrieved from his coat, "I slept a little whilst I was at Grantaire's."

“Of course you did.” Combeferre said. His voice carried an edge of gentle scolding that Enjolras had grown only too used to, “Do not work yourself into an early grave, my friend.”

“I have not been sleeping well lately,” _I only sleep well when I am with him,_  “If I am to be awake at this ungodly hour I may was well make something productive of it.”

“Though I do not endorse them, you know full well that you can purchase sleep remedies at the apothecary.”

“Do I?”

Combeferre cleared his throat, pointedly pretending to focus on his reading, “Well you are surely familiar enough with the apothecary by now...”

Enjolras tensed, “And what do you mean by that?”

“Forgive me." He set down his book, “I merely mean that you might want to be more discreet when you go about purchasing your teas and tonics.”

Enjolras flushed, “How is anyone to know I am not purchasing them for a mistress?” he said hotly.

“You make it well known that you have no mistress.” Combeferre said flatly.

“It is not a lie. I doubt Grantaire counts as a mistress."

“I am not saying it is a lie,” Combeferre said, “I am saying that it may arouse suspicion. What would you say, were you asked about it?”

“Perhaps I would say Patria is my mistress.” Enjolras said dryly, abandoning his work to take a seat opposite his friend, "Everyone jokes as such behind my back, do they not?"

Combeferre let out a small scoff, shaking his head, “Do not be so ignorant." he said, "All I mean is that if you insist on dabbling in bought remedies you should at least send a gamin to fetch them for you, rather than venture there yourself. Imagine if you were to run into one of our friends there.”

“Perhaps I shall from now on. Are you done judging me?”

“I am not judging you, my friend,” Combeferre sighed heavily, “Your happiness is important. But our cause is greater, you know that more than anyone, and I cannot help but think...” he hesitated.

“Yes?” Enjolras raised one eyebrow, “Do not leave it there, if you have something to say to me.”

“I can't help but think this thing you have with Grantaire to be more unwise now than ever. He drinks heavily, and he is often loud and uncouth regarding his conquests,” Combeferre said, “A libertine is no sensible suitor. How can you trust him so completely?"

“He would never betray me."

“I am not suggesting he would do so knowingly, Enjolras,” Combeferre closed his book, expression grave, “But absinthe makes a man's tongue loose...”

“We have discussed this before. I have it under control."

“I am simply trying to stress to you the need to exercise caution. It worries me. What if you were to find yourself with child? A fine mess to get yourself into with our goal so fast approaching.”

Enjolras shifted uncomfortably, the very idea making him feel sick with dread, “Why do you think I buy my teas? It is a precaution-”

“It is not infallible, and as a student of medicine, I must say that I do not endorse the use of apothecary remedies. They'll put anything in them if it will sell them.”

“Well what do you suggest?” Enjolras snapped, “Do you offer any fool-proof alternatives? Perhaps I should drink hot mercury – was that not a thing in ancient China? I'm sure I've read that, in one of your books.”

“Do not be ridiculous. I just do not wish to watch you poison yourself.”

“What does it matter, with our plans so close to completion?” Enjolras said.

Combeferre looked away, a grim silence seizing the room. It was not something they had discussed at length; they both knew the likely outcome of their efforts, that their cause might make martyrs of many of them. They knew this, and they accepted it readily, but they did not speak on it.

“Very well. Do as you wish. I would never presume to tell you what to do, Enjolras." Combeferre said finally, "But I cannot condone this liaison."

"So you constantly say. You are a dog with a bone." Enjolras said, huffing, "My relationship with Grantaire is my only transgression - allow me to have it and say no more on it."

"I do not do this to hurt you, Enjolras. I am only speaking what I think to be the truth."

"The others have mistresses and affairs of the heart," Enjolras argued, feeling as though he were being backed into a corner, "Courfeyrac has had more girls than I dare count. Joly and Bossuet share a mistress.” He fixed Combeferre with a hard stare, “I doubt even you are wholly innocent on that front."

"I am not you, Enjolras." Combeferre sighed, "I could have a dozen mistresses and it would make no difference. Exposure of you for as you are would cost us our support, and you know it. And even if the matter of your birth was not discovered, Grantaire is not a mistress, as you said yourself - he is a man, and so are you. That is not so readily accepted as Courfeyrac's girls."

Enjolras dug his nails into the arms of his chair. He considered Grantaire his only vice, and one that he had grown increasingly prone to. Putting himself in a difficult situation was of little consequence to him, and his family's reputation could be damned, but the implication that his affair could damage their cause put him ill at ease. He could not deny the truth of Combeferre's words. If he was exposed he would be ridiculed at best, and all their plans would fall apart. At worst he'd be carted off to a hospital to live out the rest of his days in conditions barely fit for a beast.

“If you are quite done lecturing me,” he said slowly, “I have work to do.”

Combeferre sighed, turning back to his book.

 

* * *

 

 

The two of them continued their argument for a grand total of three days; it was the longest they had ever been at odds with one another.

Enjolras knew it to be immature of him, especially as he knew Combeferre to be right. That was where the problem lay; he did not want to think that the one thing lending him sanity also held the potential to be his failing. It felt sometimes to Enjolras that people forgot he was human. He kept himself so apart from the others – a matter of self-preservation given his secret – that he had come to be seen only as some saint of revolution, incandescent but untouchable. Not a man, but an ideal. A cold, distant star.

There were moments when this belief seemed to extend even to Grantaire; after the first time he had let out a joyless laugh, “I feel as though I have desecrated a church!” he'd exclaimed.

“I am not a place of worship.” Enjolras had insisted heatedly, “Do not make love to me as if you are praying at an altar.”

From then on any strange and uncomfortable ideals of worship that Grantaire had placed upon him seemed to fall away when they went to bed together, discarded with their clothing. He kissed him hard and treated him as Enjolras assumed he would treat any other lover, sometimes with tenderness and other times, when Enjolras had the taste for it, with some roughness. Within the confines of Grantaire's rooms they were ordinary lovers, removed from talk of revolution.

It was a semblance of normality amidst utter chaos, and Enjolras found he could not give it up. It had become an addiction.

It quickly became clear to Enjolras that his argument with Combeferre unsettled their friends; their usual meeting fell on the third day of their dispute, and as they settled down to business he noticed many of the group muttering worriedly among themselves as they observed the tension between them. They surely thought it a bad omen; if the chief and the guide were at each other's throats, then certainly the revolution was doomed. They probably speculated that they had had some grave disagreement about political ideals - that they had simply fought over Enjolras' romantic affairs was embarrassing.

The more he turned Combeferre's words over in his mind, the more they unsettled him. He often heard Grantaire boasting about past lovers with Joly and Laigle, the three of them nesting over a game of dominoes or cards. He was vile and distasteful about it at times, though Enjolras had always held hopes it was the wine that gave him such a crass tongue, and not his nature. Grantaire had stated he had an interest in men the same as with women, but Enjolras truly had to wonder if he saw him so. Perhaps he humoured him in calling him 'Monsieur'. Perhaps it was an act. Perhaps, in dimly lit wineshops, he told bawdy tales of the pretty highborn girl who insisted on wearing waistcoats and gave up her virginity like a common grisette. And even if he did not – even if he saw him as he truly was – there was very little to stop the nature of their relationship slipping out in conversation. Alcohol made men eager to talk, and Grantaire was well acquainted with it.

Even now he was chuckling with Joly about something that, from earshot, sounded crude.

“Enjolras!” It was Courfeyrac's voice that wrenched him out of his thoughts, and he turned to see his friend, delightfully well-dressed as always, making his way across the room from where he had been helping Feuilly with flyers. He was wearing a new waistcoat, crafted from fine burgundy brocade and with wide points. Courfeyrac was a revolutionary at heart, but his vanity with fashion was his one fault in this regard; 'There is no shame in looking smart,' he had once defended when Enjolras had teased him about it. 'Men are more likely to take you seriously with a well-tailored coat.' - that was his philosophy.

“You look troubled, my friend!” he said, throwing one arm jovially around his shoulders, “And you and Combeferre have barely spoken a word to each other all evening! Did you offend one of his favourite philosophers?”

Enjolras gave a feeble laugh, turning his attention to the map of Paris that was laid out across the table, “We have had a small disagreement, as people who share lodgings often will. It will pass soon.” he assured him.

“I should hope so. We were worried.” Courfeyrac patted his shoulder, “What did you fight over? Courting the same fair Mademoiselle?” he joked.

"Of course," Enjolras said dryly.

"Ah, do not be so down, my friend - Combeferre will come around, whatever the cause of your dispute."

"I am afraid it is I who needs to come around," Enjolras admitted grudgingly, "I am the one at fault."

"Well, that is your business, and you can be proud - so I shall not press for details."

"Thank you..." Enjolras trailed off, leaning against the table for a moment as a strange feeling crept over him.

His stomach hurt. It started light, slowly turning into a deep, horrible ache in his abdomen. It did not make sense; his monthly blood had not yet arrived. He braced himself, trying to breathe through it.

“Enjolras? Are you quite well?”

He looked up, nodding as the pain began to ebb as quickly as it had come on, “Quite. Why do you ask?”

“You seem pale. You should rest. Combeferre said you were not sleeping well.”

“I will be fine.”

“You are overworking yourself. You always seem tired, of late. Go home. We can manage here without you.” Courfeyrac said softly.

“No---”

“Go home. You are no good to France if you are sick.” Combeferre said from his seat. Enjolras tensed up, forcing himself to stand up straight as though to prove himself in good health. 

“I will manage.”

“That was not a suggestion.”

_You will never presume to tell me what to do? Ha!_

“What if you were to make everyone else here sick, if that is the matter with you?”

“He's sick?” Joly piped up from the back of the room. Grantaire put his drink down to listen.

“I'm not.” Enjolras hissed, “I am perfectly fine.”

“I can examine you, if you like,” Joly offered. He looked positively fraught with worry at the thought of Enjolras contracting illness. Grantaire was silent for once, eyes fixed on Enjolras as if he was trying to diagnose him at a glance.

“No.” Enjolras said quickly, “No, thank you. Fine - I shall go home, if it will put your mind at ease.” he glanced at Combeferre, who simply held out his coat to him. Enjolras took it from him somewhat aggressively, pulling it on and trying to ignore the look on Grantaire's face.

“Look after yourself, my friend,” Courfeyrac said, “Get well rested.”

Enjolras nodded curtly, shooting Combeferre a betrayed look, and then turned to leave.

By the time he reached home the pain in his abdomen had completely subsided, and he thought it typical that he should feel better now that he had left the meeting. He contemplated going back to the Musain, but the walk would eat up much of the remaining meeting time, and he was sure that Combeferre would only send him straight back home again anyway. Accepting that he was in for the night he went about lighting the fire in the hearth, before finding himself a book to read and sinking down into the high-backed chair.

He would ignore what Combeferre had said about Grantaire for as long as he could, though he knew that that was not long at all. He had known from the very beginning that he could not keep up what he had with Grantaire forever; forever was not within their grasp with all that was unfolding. Their love was doomed, and, in full knowledge of that, Enjolras had still flung himself into it with full force. Thinking of the revolution, it seemed he did that with many things. He sighed, closing his eyes for just a moment as he listened to the gentle crackle of the fire.

* * *

 

He woke with a start; the room was cold and dark, but he was sweating wildly, his shirt soaked. He could not remember when he had fallen asleep, but what little rest he'd gotten had been sharply interrupted. The pain had returned, only now it seemed to have fallen into a disharmonious marriage with an intense feeling of nausea. He sat up, breathing heavily as he had done so in the cafe, waiting for the pain to pass. It felt as though someone was twisting a knife in his gut.

He couldn't understand - this cramping sensation usually only accompanied his monthly blood, but that was not yet here. As he thought of this he began to wonder - when _was_ it supposed to be here? What was the date, for that matter? With all that was going on around him he had lost track of many things; days had blurred together and dates had become quite unimportant to him.

Straining to recall he realised that he could not in fact remember when he'd last bled. The thought made his stomach sink.

_God, no._

_No, no, no..._

He stood, legs weak, and staggered all of four steps before he fell, slamming into the wall as he tried to catch himself. The book he had been reading slid from his hand with a heavy thud.

“Enjolras?!”

He looked up, blinking at the hazy shape that was Combeferre, his familiar silhouette appearing in the doorway with a candle.

“Enjolras, what happened?!” his voice was frantic as he knelt down beside him, setting the candle on the table, “Are you alright? Can you hear me?”

He gave a feeble nod.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

Enjolras closed his eyes, immediately opening them again when he found that doing so made him dizzy.

“Combeferre,” he said weakly, “Combeferre, I think I am with child...”

Combeferre, true to his nature, did not tell him that he had warned him so. Instead he pulled him into his arms and held him close as Enjolras tried to find his composure.

“I feel ever so sick,” he whispered.

“I'll find you a bucket.” Combeferre offered, releasing him, “Stay here.”

“I do not see myself going anywhere else for a while,” Enjolras said, feeling somewhat hysterical with panic.

This was a disaster. It felt to Enjolras as though his body had betrayed him. He could not be in this situation - he simply could not. Pregnancy was difficult to conceal; it was hard to keep his secret as it was, how could he possibly do so if he was pregnant? He had visions of how it might be when his stomach started to swell, when he could no longer hide it behind his well-tailored waistcoats. He would have to go into hiding, or risk being exposed. All the resentment he felt towards his anatomy bubbled over all at once, and the grief of it threatened to break him. He clutched his stomach, feeling hot, angry tears forming in his eyes.

He glanced up again as Combeferre returned, placing a bucket down beside him.

“Will you tell him?” he asked.

“I do not know. Why should it matter? It changes nothing of our plans."

“Enjolras---”

“It changes nothing of our plans.” He said hotly, “I am nothing, in the grand scheme of things. I will not risk all that we've accomplished and hope to accomplish because of this.”

Combeferre clenched his jaw, “Very well. What would you have me do for you, then?”

“Just keep me on my feet.” Enjolras said, grabbing for the bucket, “No matter the circumstances.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a pretty violent/bloody dream sequence in this chapter, just a heads up.

Enjolras spent the next four days confined to bed against his will, despite insisting to Combeferre that he was fine; the pain in his stomach had gone away after that evening and had not returned. Still, Combeferre insisted upon bedrest, bringing him soup and bread along with any news from their friends. Enjolras' nausea came and went, accompanied by fatigue, but nothing was of any notable concern. From what he knew of pregnancy, such things were not unusual. On the third day he missed the usual meeting under great duress.

"You need to rest," Combeferre said.

“If you continue to coddle me, we will be having another disagreement presently.” Enjolras said, frustrated, “I am more than fit enough to attend the meeting! I kept down the bread and soup, did I not? A wonder how - that soup was weak enough to have been water.”

“I did not want to further upset your stomach. And have you not seen yourself lately, my friend?” Combeferre said, an air of exasperation to his voice, “You look pale as a dead man. You can be up and about your business again as usual when I am sure you have caught up on your sleep. It is not good for you or for the---”

“Do not.” Enjolras snapped, cutting him short, "Do _not_ talk of it as if it is already a child."

“Very well.” Combeferre sighed, setting a stack of books and letters onto Enjolras' lap, “Here.” he said, “You can at least work from your bed, if you insist on keeping productive.”

Enjolras took them with an indignant sniff, “Thank you.” he said stiffly.

For a moment, Combeferre lingered at his bedside in silence, and then, very cautiously, said, “Have you thought about what you shall say to Grantaire?”

Enjolras shrugged, not looking up from his papers as he scanned them over meticulously, “What is there to say?”

“You are carrying his child.”

“Thank you for reminding me.” Enjolras said dryly, “I had forgotten, even with you confining me to my bed as though I were already close to delivery. Your dedication to midwifery is touching, but rather unnecessary.”

Combeferre pointedly ignored his sarcasm, “It is on you whether you tell him or not, but I would think it best. He has some right to know.”

"The decision is mine alone."

"I know that."

Enjolras hesitated, setting down his papers to look up at him, "You are learning to be a doctor." he ventured cautiously, "Do you not know of some way to deal with this matter?"

"Deal with it?"

"You know," he pressed, wanting him to catch on so he would not have to say it, "Some medical procedure with which to solve my problem?"

"Ah." Combeferre said, falling very quiet. He looked thoughtful for a moment, before shaking his head.

"I cannot help you with that,"

Enjolras clenched his jaw, "If you have some moral disagreement with the idea---"

"It is not that." Combeferre cut in, "Believe me, that is not the issue, Enjolras. I do not personally believe it is my right to force anything as arduous as childbirth upon anyone." he said, "But I am afraid that I am limited in my knowledge of such things. I know of a few ways, but they are all a risk. There are teas you can drink, not unlike those you were taking, that would encourage your body to give up the pregnancy - but there would be a lot of bleeding, and it could very easily result in your own death."

Enjolras looked down, "And the other methods?"

"The other methods all involve surgical equipment, and run much the same risk. I do not even know how to perform them myself - I have not studied them. I beg that you do not ask that of me, Enjolras. I would not forgive myself if you were to die under my care." he said, "I can attempt to find you a doctor that knows what to do, if you would like?"

"No," Enjolras said, "I cannot run that risk..." he shifted uncomfortably in his bed, “It doesn't matter anyway. With things as they are, it is unlikely I will reach full term. I do not even think it wise to inform Grantaire. What is the point worrying him with it, if there is to be no child? Things will be in motion by the end of summer.”

Combeferre gave a heavy, defeated sigh, “Are you so determined to die a martyr that you will not even consider making plans for the child, should you live long enough to bring it into the world?"

“My life has been leading up to this revolution, Combeferre,” Enjolras said, “I will give everything of myself to the cause. I will burn myself out to light the flame. We cannot delay for something like this."

“I know, my friend,” Combeferre sat down on the edge of the bed, laying one hand on Enjolras's shoulder, “But our plans may take longer to come to fruition than we expect. We could very easily put things back several months..."

“And what? Lose our progress?” Enjolras said, sitting up straighter, “And what of me, when I am too obviously with child to attend our meetings? Shall you send me away to a house in the country so that I can whelp my bastard like some disgraced aristocrat?” he accused.

“The manner in which you dealt with your affairs would be your choice, Enjolras. But at least consider it. Speak to Grantaire about it. Make plans to bequeath him some money. I dare say he's not fit to raise a child, but you know him better than I do.”

“Very well.” Enjolras said, shrugging his hand off his shoulder, “I may speak to him on the matter, when you will let me leave this damned bed. Do not hassle me on it again, I beg.”

With that, Combeferre stood, “I'll see you after the meeting. I'll take notes, and bring you all the news that there is.”

“Do not let them worry for me.”

“I won't.” Combeferre hesitated a moment, before digging into the inside pocket of his coat and passing him a letter, “This arrived for you this morning.” he said, “It has your full name on it.”

Enjolras took it tentatively, stomach dropping when he saw the familiar handwriting on the envelope.

“It is from my mother.” he said.

“I thought as much. I didn't wish to presume. I will see you later."

With that Combeferre turned and left him to his own devices, closing the door quietly behind him.

For a while Enjolras contemplated throwing the letter into the hearth; Anything with that name on it was a curse to him. No doubt it would only bring him misery to read it, and he had more than enough to concern himself with as it was.

When he had first founded Les Amis alongside Combeferre and Courfeyrac he had only ever gone by his family name, and to their credit, nobody in the group had ever asked why. Before long it had become natural for members to refer to each other only by their surnames. 

He immersed himself into his work for a while, but soon found he could not ignore the letter on the nightstand, unassuming and yet persistent in it's presence. Finally he gave up, lifting it close to the candlelight to read it and tearing it open.

_My dearest Marie,_

_I pray this letter finds you well. I write to you now with a heavy heart, for we have heard the rumours of unrest in Paris, and fear for the safety of you, our most beloved daughter. Alongside this worry I am pained to inform you that your father has fallen terribly ill - the doctor believes it to be the white plague, and that he is at this point beyond his curative powers. I fear he may not have long left in this world, and I know it would please him deeply for you to return home to us, to be here with him. I would love for you to have the opportunity to make amends with him before he passes from this life. You are greatly missed. A dear old friend of your father's has been in attendance to him during his sickness, and it would bring me great joy to introduce you; he has a son of an age with you, who is most handsome and quite charming. He has seen portraits of you, and I believe would be pleased to court you. Perhaps you would send a more recent portrait of yourself for him to admire? He would, I am sure, bring you great joy as a husband._

_I await your response with hopeful anticipation.  
_

_Yours,_

_Your beloved mother._

Enjolras laughed. He could not help it; it burst forth from within him without warning, almost hysterical in it's nature. Of course he should be asked to return to Limoges now, when he was in a position that would not allow him to go home even if he was inclined to! Of course! It was such poetic timing that he found it absurdly hilarious.

His mother was right to be worried for his safety with regards to the political unrest that was sweeping through Paris, though for very different reasons; his heart was wed to the very cause she feared might do him harm.

It amused him also to find that she had once more picked up her crusade to have him married off; when he had turned eighteen she had begun trying to find him a suitable match, and it was clear from her determination that she thought selling him off in marriage might suddenly end the conflict between his body and his heart. It was almost laughable to him that she thought a husband would fix the issue, rather than exacerbate it.

'Marriage and children are the remedy to your ailment,' she had written to him once. Enjolras had thrown the letter into the hearth.

He had then proceeded to burn every letter that followed that hinted at potential suitors, and once, infamously, threatened to castrate a Baron with an oyster fork if he was delusional enough to think he would ever wed and bed him.

'Please inform the good Baron that he would be quite like to leave our marriage bed one appendage shorter than when he entered it,' he had written back curtly.

After that his mother had stopped trying to find him a husband.

Enjolras did not know whether it was because she had exhausted all options or because word of his unusual state had become known in their circle. He did not care. He was merely thankful for the respite. Now, it appeared, she had taken up the cause again. She was likely worried his father's death would complicate affairs of their estate. Finding Enjolras a husband would at least make some matters easier.

He wondered what this most handsome and quite charming son of his father's friend would think if he were ever presented to him. He thought about this impossible, hypothetical 'if' - 'if' he returned to Limoges as his parents bid him, 'if' he agreed to meet this boy to appease them - and could not help but be amused. His mother had in her locket a portrait of him at sixteen, all feminine features and demure smiles, which she had no doubt shown to the young man in question. Enjolras had never seen such a flagrant example of false advertising in all his life; he imagined the young man would not be pleased to find that the pretty mademoiselle from the locket was in fact cold and severe and dressed in men's trousers and waistcoats.

He imagined he would be even less pleased to find that the 'woman' he hoped to make his bride was already pregnant with the child of a penniless artist.

If it would not result in being completely financially severed from them he would have written back with the truth, just to put the matter to it's grave once and for all.

Still, the letter left him ill at ease. Not the part about a potential husband - that he gave little heed to - but the part about returning home, and the seemingly imminent death of his father.

His father had often been harsh on him, but he was his father nonetheless, and though he knew he would not be returning to the family home to see him his heart would be heavy over it, and heavy over his mother, too - it was only through her intervention that he was not committed to a hospital.

Without his father she would be alone. And that, Enjolras could admit, pained him to think on.

 

* * *

 

The next evening, no longer under confinement, he set about calling on Grantaire when he was finished with his work. He was still indecisive about what to divulge to him of his condition, or if he even ought to at all. Though he tried to ignore it, he could not dismiss Combeferre's words entirely. He fully expected to die a martyr for the revolution, but what if he didn't? What if he came out of the turmoil alive and unharmed? Then he would have no option but to the face the grim reality of his pregnancy.

He pushed the thought aside, knocking on the door.

“Monsieur! Are you not sick?” Grantaire cried when he saw him.

"No,"

“You look pale!” he said to Enjolras as he ushered him inside, “When you failed to attend the meeting, many of us assumed you to be dead! Combeferre assured us you were well, but you live and breathe for your politics - it was not a far stretch of the imagination to think you'd have to be six feet beneath ground to miss it!”

"I am alive," Enjolras said, stepping inside and starting to unbutton his coat.

Grantaire noticed this, and a smile spread across his face, “Intending on staying a while?” he presumed, offering to take Enjolras' coat from him as he always did. Enjolras gave it up instantly.

“Are you well, then?"

“I'm not sick.”

It was not a lie, Enjolras told himself.

“Ah, well that's a good thing! I should hate to lose you to a common cold. Someone like you should not be knocked down by sickness alone – it would be a tragic waste! And I'm sure, not a grand enough death, in your opinion. Then again, Achilles had his heel, did he not?” Grantaire said, “It is good to hear that you're well. You were deeply missed at the meeting. It was positively mind-numbing without your golden presence.”

“Why do you attend?” Enjolras found himself asking out of nowhere.

“What?”

“Our meetings. If you do not share in our ideals, why do you waste your evenings with us?”

“You, of course."

“You attended our meetings long before we came to be lovers.” Enjolras reasoned, "I have always wondered why you started to come to them, if you did not share our goals. I have never asked you."

Grantaire turned to hang Enjolras' coat on the hook, giving a dismissive shrug, “It is pleasant to pretend for a while that things can change.”

“Things _can_ change. The people---”

“The people are people like me, Enjolras," Grantaire said, "It is a wondrous thing to dream that the world can be better. A fine thing, to imagine that the impossible can be achieved by schoolboys, if they have enough passion for it.” he smiled sadly, “But when push comes to shove, when it really matters, people are frightened and they will act only in their own interests.”

“This is in their interests.”

“Their interests are self-preservation. Not everyone is so ready to lay down their life for a country that has failed them as you.”

Enjolras felt his face reddening, his hands curling into fists at his sides, “What do you know of anything? You do not speak for the majority---”

“And neither do you.” Grantaire said, “You distance yourself from them so much, and I do not blame you, I know why you do it,” he muttered, “But I have drank with them and lost bets to them and been one of them. I greet the baker beneath my lodgings every morning. I give scraps to the gamin in the street, when I can spare them. I have had girls from Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, and friends from every corner of the city. I know people, and I know that people will not fight unless they know they will triumph. Revolution has not been so sweet on them; they are disillusioned to it, Enjolras, and they will not rise when you call them to when the odds are stacked against them.”

Enjolras swallowed hard, the sickness in his stomach returning, though he could not be sure if it were due to his condition or some deep-seated fear that Grantaire spoke true.

He lifted his chin, “I suppose we shall see about that, when the time comes.”

“I suppose we will, unfortunately.” Grantaire gave a sigh, throwing his hands up in dismay, “And to think, when you called upon me I was so pleased to see you in good health! Can we not return to that? Each time we meet we find ourselves at odds over your ideals, and each time we meet we swear we will not bring the issue up again! What liars we are! What fools!”

At this, Enjolras softened slightly. Were it anyone else he would have pressed his argument further, would have hounded them with all the faith he had in mankind until they came around to his way of thinking. But with Grantaire, it was hopeless.

“Lovers are always fools.” Enjolras said quietly.

At this, Grantaire reached forwards to take his hands in his; they were rough and dry from paint, so different from Enjolras' own. It seemed so strange to him that their fingers should fit so perfectly together, when nothing about either of them looked as though it should compliment the other.

“If that is so, it says a lot for you and your Patria,” he said.

Enjolras sighed, shaking his head despairingly.

Grantaire gave a wry smile, “I'm sorry." he said, “I truly do not know when to watch my tongue, do I? Not that you have ever complained of that before...”

“Do not be crude.”

“Very well. If you are not sick, then by extension, I would assume you are not contagious! Joly shall be thrilled to know that! May I kiss you, monsieur?”

Enjolras nodded, closing his eyes as he felt Grantaire's lips against his own.

He had little desire to bring the child he was carrying into the world, but for a fleeting moment he thought back to Grantaire's words about their imagined future. Grantaire was tender and loving - he would have made an excellent father, if only he were more fit for the role in other ways. Enjolras felt guilty for thinking that way; it was a harsh assessment to make about one he loved, but an honest one. Grantaire had little wealth to his name - his family had money, quite a lot of it, but they'd long since detached themselves from Grantaire - and what measly allowance he did have he squandered freely on his wine. Enjolras could leave him something as Combeferre suggested, but he did not know how long it would last when pitted against Grantaire's vices. His heart may have had the capacity to raise a child, but little else of him did.

“You seem troubled,” Grantaire said, breaking the kiss, “A foolish thing, to ask if you are troubled by something; your life is so busy you would surely have to produce a list! But still, are you quite alright?”

 _I am carrying your child._ The words lingered on Enjolras' tongue, heavy and severe, and for a moment he kept them there, seeing how they tasted. After all they had just spoken of, was it truly worth burdening Grantaire with this knowledge? Despite what Combeferre said he knew nothing would come of it. With their plans in motion it was likely Enjolras would be cold in the ground long before he ever reached full term. They could not simply wait for a convenient time; the need for change did not abide to a man's schedule.

What use was there in telling Grantaire he would be a father if the child would never be born? It was a cruel and unnecessary thing to tell a man that he would soon be mourning both his lover and his child. Better he remain in ignorance about the whole affair.

“I'm fine,” he said instead, “Merely distracted. I have been working a lot. Combeferre supposes that was the cause of my sickness.”

“Ah,”

“I have a lot on my mind at the moment.” Enjolras said; that, at least, was not a lie, “This came for me a few days ago. It is from my mother,” He pulled the letter from inside his waistcoat, handing it to Grantaire, who took it cautiously. His brow furrowed as he read it through.

“I am sorry to hear about your father. And that your mother seems set on finding you a husband.” he scowled a little at the last part, as though personally offended by his mother's intentions, “You are not going to return home, I assume?”

“Of course not.” Enjolras scoffed, taking the letter back from him, “But it is bothering me. My father is not exactly a good man, but he is not the worst by any means, and he is my father all the same.” he said, stuffing it back into his waistcoat.

“You are a credit to yourself, Enjolras.” Grantaire said, “If I received news that my own father was on his deathbed, I would probably drink myself into my own grave from celebrating.”

Enjolras shrugged; from what Grantaire had told him of his father, he would not blame him. Grantaire had inheritated his love of drink from his father, but, fortunately, not his penchant for beating women and children.

“I should not like to leave my mother all alone in this world.” Enjolras admitted, “She tried to conceal my behaviour from my father many times. It is only because of her that my father did not have me sent to a madhouse.”

“You do not belong there.” Grantaire agreed.

“I honestly doubt that many of those who find themselves there belong there.” Enjolras said, “I do not know what will happen to my mother when my father dies.”

“I would assume she will become a very wealthy widow."

“But she will still be alone.”

“Then please, allow me to help to take your mind off it. For a short time, at least,”

Enjolras was about to state that the mood was not upon him, but instead of moving to undress him, Grantaire simply pulled Enjolras into his arms and held him quietly, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Things will be alright.” he said. Though they both knew otherwise, the lie was comforting.

Enjolras steadied his breathing, closing his eyes and allowing himself, just for a moment, to sink into the feeling of Grantaire's arms around him, his body pressed warmly against his.

For a moment he could forget everything that was happening, the world around him suddenly reduced only to he and Grantaire. It reminded him that things had not always been so desperate between them. Last summer, before the future had seemed so perilous, they had let themselves be like any young lovers - foolish and wholly absorbed in each other's company. Back then Enjolras' plans had seemed so distant that he had not yet processed the weight of them. Mornings had been wasted eating pastries together, lazing around on the mattress in Grantaire's lodgings, drunk with euphoria. He remembered those early days when he had first started to fall for him - the way his skin seemed to tingle when Grantaire touched him, the way his heart felt as though his chest could barely contain it.

There had once been a grand four-poster bed in the room, and Enjolras recalled laughing as Grantaire explained how he had bet it away in a game of cards after too much wine, and that he only maintained possession of the mattress because his opponent had not been specific about taking that also. He missed those days. Their arguments about revolution had been far less real - more a clash of ideals than a real debate, their points exchanged with smirks and punctuated with kisses.

“Be easy,” Grantaire had joked once, when Enjolras had exhausted himself on a rant about the upper class.

“Am I not already being so?” Enjolras had said back, and Grantaire had laughed and kissed him deeply.

Now that all seemed a distant dream. Their secret meetings had become a desperate scramble to steal time together before that time ran out.

“May I stay here tonight?” Enjolras asked, resting his chin against Grantaire's shoulder.

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

The Musain was empty, Enjolras standing alone in the middle of the room out of which Les Amis conducted their affairs. It was silent, and though nothing seemed out of place something about the cafe was deeply wrong; Enjolras could feel it in the pit of his stomach. The room seemed larger, as though it was opening up to swallow him whole. The expanse between the walls felt like gaping jaws, the wooden furniture like splintered, jagged teeth. The cafe that so often felt like a second home to him had become a foreboding, unfamiliar place. A shiver ran down Enjolras' spine.

Suddenly chaos shook the room; a distant boom, like thunder, followed by a flash of blinding white light. For a moment he thought a storm was passing over the city, but then he smelt the black powder in the air and he knew it was not thunder, but the roar of a cannon.

And then the gunfire started up, ringing out incessantly, a relentless hail outside the Musain. _Pop, pop, pop_. He could hear bullets hitting metal and stone, ricocheting as they made contact, yet somehow no shots pierced the windows or walls of the cafe. There was shouting too, only half distinguishable beneath the din. Enjolras' blood ran cold in his veins. Cries of pain, cries for help, cries of his name. There were voices, voices that he recognised.

It was this that made Enjolras take off running to the door.

“I'm here!” he screamed, "I'm in here! Courfeyrac? Combeferre! Where are you?"

The door was shut, and refused to yield. He clawed at the bolt, scratching at it until his fingers hurt and blood welled up beneath his nails. If he could only get the door open - then his friends could take cover in the cafe.

“I'm in here!” he shouted again, giving up and running instead to the nearest window. He tripped as he went, crashing to the floor with a thud and landing on his hands and knees. Down on the ground he realised suddenly that in place of his trousers and tailcoat he was wearing a dress. It was heavy, and the many layers of petticoats had softened his fall. _It must have been why I tripped_ , he thought. Why was he wearing a dress, though? He couldn't understand.

There was no time for him to question his choice of attire; from the windows he could see nothing but thick black smoke and sparks. The voices continued to call out for him.

"Where are you?" he cried, desperate.

Suddenly, the pandemonium stopped; silence crept over the cafe once again, and from outside light poured into the room, through the bullet holes in the walls that Enjolras had not seen before, illuminating everything around him.

It was then Enjolras saw that he was not alone after all; bodies littered the ground all around him. They were slumped in corners and laying where they'd fallen, pistols still in hand. He saw their faces, pale and dead, and he knew them all. There was Jean Prouvaire, with his mauve waistcoat and the cravat Courfeyrac had once deemed unfashionable. He saw Joly, cane at his side and a kerchief in one hand. Feuilly, in his patchy old tailcoat. Bahorel and Bossuet.

He felt his heart stagger for a moment as his eyes fell upon Courfeyrac, his chest riddled with bullets. Combeferre lay beside him, and in the corner, oh, god, Grantaire, in the fine red waistcoat Enjolras had only recently gifted him, lifeless and limp. All of them, dead.

There was another among them too, whom Enjolras did not recognise; a child, who for a moment he thought to be one of the gamin that so liked to involve themselves with Les Amis' business. But upon closer inspection he saw that the young boy was too well dressed to be an urchin, and his hair was a mop of beautiful ink black curls.

Slowly, Enjolras stood; a single lone figure rising from a room of corpses. He hitched up the bottom of the dress, stepping carefully as he made his way around the cafe, looking at each of his friends in turn, desperate to find some signs of life. Eyes stared up at him, unblinking and devoid of light. Faces already greying with death watched him move around the room in silent judgement.

This was his fault. He was to blame for this carnage. His friends, dead, his lover, dead. A child, a child, _his_ child?

“You there!”

He looked up instantly to see that he was no longer the only living thing inside the Musain; a dozen members of the National Guard had appeared out of nowhere, as though they had drifted in on the gunsmoke like ghosts. They faced him with muskets in hand, uniforms crisp and clean, pristine despite the horror around them.

“Mademoiselle, are you hurt?”

“No,” Enjolras whispered, “No, you are mistaken, I'm not---”

“You need to come with us, Mademoiselle. You do not belong here---”

“I do!” Enjolras protested, as two of them seized him by the arms, “I do! I am one of them! I am one of them!” he yelled.

No! No, he was supposed to die beside them. He was supposed to be with them. He kicked out at one of the soldiers, his foot connecting with his leg but seeming to pass right through him.

"I am one of them. I am an insurgent. Shoot me," he demanded, struggling to free himself. _No, no, no._ He would not be taken prisoner. He would not be taken back to live a life in skirts. He had lost everything.

" _Shoot me!"_

The men did not even appear to hear him.

“I am one of them!” he persisted, screaming it until his voice was hoarse, “ _I am one of them_!”

 -

“Enjolras?”

He woke with a sharp gasp, his whole body jerking.

“Enjolras?” the familiar voice was soothing, though it seemed as though it should have been the voice of a ghost.

He blinked through the dark, letting his eyes adjust, and looked at Grantaire.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” Enjolras breathed, hands trembling as he reached for Grantaire's, “Yes, I am fine. It was a dream, nothing more.”

“You were shouting. It gave me a fright. I thought perhaps we were being attacked.”

 _We were,_ Enjolras thought.

“It was nothing,” he said. He hadn't realised that he was weeping until Grantaire reached forwards to wipe the tears from his cheek. 

"It doesn't seem like nothing." he said gently.

"It was nothing." Enjolras repeated, closing his eyes and laying his head against Grantaire's chest; his heart was beating slow and steady, and Enjolras let it wash over him, the gentle rhythm calming his nerves. It was proof that he was still alive, still here, now, in this moment, unharmed and real.

“What happened?” Grantaire asked after a long while.

“I was alone.” Enjolras answered simply.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning in this chapter for sickness, pregnancy loss and also some medicinal 19th century drug use. Ah, those good 'ol days.

When Enjolras blinked awake it was already well into the day, sunlight streaming into the small room from the single dusty window and stinging his tired eyes. Grantaire was still asleep, one arm draped lazily over Enjolras' waist; no matter how they fell asleep they always seemed to wake entangled, as if even in slumber some gravitational pull drew them together.

Grantaire looked peaceful as he slept, and Enjolras envied him for it; following his dream he had struggled to fall back to sleep, even tucked in close against Grantaire's chest the way he had been.

He sat up slowly in bed, arching his back and stretching his arms out in front of him. For an instant he blacked out, darkness clouding his vision, and then his stomach churned and he knew what was coming. He flung himself from the bed, managing to make it to a basket by Grantaire's easel before he forfeit the contents of his stomach.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire's voice drifted over from the bed, low and sleepy, “Are you alright?”

“Perfectly.” Enjolras replied, clutching the basket so tightly his knuckles started to turn white. His mouth tasted foul. “Do not mind me. Go back to sleep; you seemed content.”

“Have you been at my wine?” Grantaire joked, though he could not hide the concern in his voice.

“Hardly. It is not to my taste.” Enjolras said.

He heard Grantaire throw off the bedsheets, heard the creak of floorboards as he rose from the bed, and then his hand was against his back, rubbing gentle circles, “What's the matter? Should I send for Combeferre?”

“Absolutely not. He would only worry.”

“Very well.”

For a while he remained there, hunched up on the floor of Grantaire's room, head bowed over the basket that, he now noticed, had been filled with scraps of paper and art materials.

“I hope there was nothing of value to you in here,” he said, the back of his throat still burning. His brow was damp with sweat, curls sticking uncomfortably to his forehead, yet a horrible shiver had come over him with his nausea, "I'm very sorry."

“It's perfectly fine. And thankfully, no,” Grantaire said, “I am not in the habit of keeping valuables in a waste basket. Only the abominations of my artwork that I find more unsightly even than most.”

“Good.” Enjolras muttered, “Though I am sure you do yourself a disservice regarding your art.”

The two of them fell into silence again, Grantaire still running his fingers along his back.

It was soothing, and even with a sour taste in his mouth and a deep sickness in his stomach Enjolras found himself relaxing into it.

He had half a mind to crawl back into bed, dragging Grantaire with him so he could fall asleep in his arms. It was the only place he seemed to get any rest. He would have done it, but it was already late in the morning, and he had matters to attend to that would not wait. He could not halt the wheels of progress for anything – not for sickness, not for his condition, and definitely not for something as self-indulgent as the childish desire to be cossetted and held.

“I have to leave,” He said abruptly, pulling himself to his feet. His stomach still felt queasy, but he ignored it, straightening himself up and holding his head high as though he had not been vomiting into a basket moments ago.

“So suddenly?” Grantaire frowned, standing, “Have I offended your dignity, oh Apollo mine? Should I have pulled back your hair for you?”

“No.” Enjolras paused, reaching forwards to brush his fingers gently against Grantaire's cheek, “No. But I am very busy today, and I have slept in far too late as it is.”

“No, I have not offended you? A rare thing, that,” Grantaire said, “Perhaps I am losing my touch with such things. I should sharpen up on it, I would hate for you to grow bored of me.”

Enjolras shook his head with a sigh, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “Do not be foolish. That is never likely to happen.”

Grantaire nodded, though he did not seem convinced.

“Rest up,” he urged, “You should take more care for your health, as I'm sure Combeferre would agree. You cannot survive on your ideals alone. Revolutionary fervour does not offer nourishment like bread and water. Righteousness offers little rest when you are weary. Revolution is not enough to keep a man on his feet, Enjolras.” fleetingly Enjolras noticed his gaze dropped to his stomach, and a thrill of fear coursed through him. _Does he know?_

“I will.” Enjolras said, “And I will see you again soon,” he promised, laying another brief kiss upon his cheek before he turned, pulling his coat from the hook.

He had to stop and sit down twice on his way back to his lodgings, believing each time that he would lose whatever of that vile soup was left in his stomach. He did not like this; the condition and all the feelings that came with it did not become him at all. How could he hope to run a revolution if he could not even stand without an overwhelming rush of dizziness? How could he load and aim a musket with shaking hands? How could he possibly inspire courage, when he had none left for himself?

He was as pale as a corpse by the time he arrived home - Combeferre said as much when he saw him, before ushering him back to his bed.

“I do not like this,” Enjolras said weakly as Combeferre brought him some warmed milk to drink, “Surely I should not be so debilitated? It is a natural process.”

“You have never had the strongest constitution,” Combeferre said gently, “I know that some suffer with the symptoms more than others. It is possible these episodes of nausea will pass eventually.”

“Possible, not certain?”

Combeferre gave him an apologetic look, “Forgive me. I am a student of medicine, but a student nonetheless. I am still learning, and I do not know enough about childbearing to be of much assistance. I am reading, though,” he said, “So that I may be of better help to you.”

“Thank you. You are too good to me, my friend. I so often ignore your advice, yet I know that you only have my wellbeing at heart.” Enjolras said with a tired smile, reaching for his hand, “I am a stubborn fool in such matters. Would that there was some easy way to end this.”

“As I have said, there are ways,” Combeferre said, “But I would not recommend any of them if you hope to live long enough to see our plans come to conclusion. If you would only take my suggestion into account," he murmured, "We could very easily put back our plans until the child is born. You would be able to recover in time---”

“Childbed is dangerous.” Enjolras protested; he knew that from experience. His own mother had almost died bringing him into the world, and he knew of two cousins that had been taken in childbirth, both their infants joining them in the grave. It seemed difficulty in such matters ran rampant in his family.

"I know that," Combeferre said quietly.

“If I died in childbirth I would die full of regrets." Enjolras said, "I should not like to throw my life away for such a common endeavor. My death is meant for France, not a screaming baby.”

Combeferre looked down, “I would do my best to see that did not happen.”

“That is not within your power, my friend.” Enjolras squeezed his hand tightly, "But I will consider it, if that puts you at ease. I owe it to you to think on your advice, and I suppose it would be easier to fight without this to worry about."

“Thank you. Did you speak with Grantaire?”

“No. At least, not of this. Do not look at me that way,” Enjolras said, catching the disapproving look that crossed his friend's features, “What is the use of worrying him with the news if it is to come to nothing? I fear if I were to tell him I carried his child he might try to find some way to stop me going to the barricades. I know him; he wants so badly for me to change my course. He would use the child as an excuse; under any other circumstances he would not object to my not wanting this child, he respects me more than that, but faced with the chance to keep me alive he would likely claim a sanctimonious attitude about it."

"I would not blame him for it." Combeferre said honestly, "I would try myself if I did not know it to be futile."

"It is my decision. My choices are my own." Enjolras insisted, "It would only cause him added pain to know of the child."

“I suppose you are right. I will leave you to your work, then,” Combeferre said, “If you should need anything else, do not hesitate to ask.”

“Only a bucket, if you'd be so kind.” he said, "I still feel terribly sick."

Combeferre smiled wryly, “That I can do.” he said, “Go easy on yourself, my friend.”

 

* * *

 

That evening he sat up at his writing desk late into the night, the candlelight throwing menacing shadows across the walls of his bedroom. He was exhausted; his limbs felt heavy and his head ached, but he could not sleep. There was too much on his mind. Whenever his thoughts were restless he found himself working into the small hours - it seemed preferable to him to make use of his agitated state than to lay tormented in his bed as sleep evaded him. He strained his eyes as he sifted through his notes, trying desperately to focus on what was in front of him. It was useless; he could not stop thinking about what Combeferre had said earlier about his condition.

A frightening truth was that he did not, in fact, know how far along into his pregnancy he was. His monthly blood was a curse that he tried his hardest to ignore, but now it seemed it had come back to haunt him. He had succeeded too well in ignoring it's presence, and now he hadn't a clue how long he had not been bleeding. He could be months along already and not know it, and it might take more months yet to see their plans come to completion. His condition could be starting to show by then for all he knew. What good would pushing their plans forward do if that were the case? What use would he be to France if he was forced to retreat from the public eye due to a swelling stomach? Even if his condition was not visible by then, how much good could he do if he was still so indisposed with nausea? He could hardly be pausing every five minutes on the barricade to throw up.

Maybe Combeferre had a point; perhaps to put back their plans by a few months would not be so terrible. It could be accomplished with little difficulty, and he had every confidence that Combeferre and Courfeyrac could keep the flame of revolution burning fiercely in his absence. He could continue as he was and then retire to his lodgings in the final months to deliver the child in secrecy, claiming sickness, with only Combeferre to attend to him. It would be easy enough to put around rumours that he was too contagious to receive visitors. When he was recovered from the birth he could return to his work as normal, none of his friends any the wiser to what had really happened.

As for the child...well, the matter of the child could be decided upon later. There were plenty of options. A home for foundlings or orphans, perhaps, but Enjolras did not much like the idea. Perhaps an inn or a farm would be preferable, he thought, as the child would receive far better care; he could dedicate a portion of his allowance each month to support it's upkeep. Hell, Grantaire could take it in if he so desired - he could very easily claim the babe was the consequence of some foolish dalliance and be believed. It would not be a lie after all, though not the whole truth by a long shot. Enjolras could easily see to it that he had the finances necessary to keep the child comfortable and healthy.

Finally admitting to himself that he was not able to focus with this on his mind he shoved the papers back into the drawer of his desk with a heavy sigh. He supposed the rest of his work would have to wait until morning.

He lay back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling for a while, tentatively moving his hands down against the flat of his stomach as though already expecting to feel the swell of growing life. There was nothing there - only warm skin beneath the fabric of his nightshirt. He tried to imagine how it might look a few months down the line, but found he was unable. How would it feel when those first flutters of life stirred inside him? He wondered if he had any instinct in him at all that might cause him, cruelly, to love his child. He prayed not; such an emotional encumbrance would complicate things further.

For the moment at least no such feelings existed in him. No, quite the opposite; he loathed his predicament. When he had embarked upon his quest for change he had sworn himself off all vices. He had vowed he would be chaste and clean, and dedicate his life as purely to the Republic as a man of the clergy would unto god.

And then Grantaire had come along.

Grantaire, with those magnetic eyes, dark curls and cocky smile. He believed himself to be unattractive, but Enjolras could not have disagreed more. He liked to think that nobody would have blamed him for being so easily felled by Grantaire's effortless charm - he was, contrary to popular belief, only human. Grantaire did not appreciate the power of his own charisma, but Enjolras had been exposed to the full force of it. He'd never stood a chance.

Enjolras had fallen hard, and this child was the result of that.

It felt like divine punishment.

His condition was a constant reminder that he had failed dismally in his exercise of self-discipline, and if he failed in that then how could he, with a clear conscience, demand such discipline from the other would-be revolutionaries in his circle? He was a hypocrite.

Though would have liked to claim blamelessness he knew in truth that he should have known better. Despite his lack of education in such areas he was not entirely oblivious to the workings of procreation - it had just never entered his mind that they might conceive. They had tried to take precautions in the beginning; an age old technique, with Grantaire finding his release at the last moment on Enjolras' stomach. When he stumbled upon the teas in the apothecary that were supposed to prevent pregnancy Enjolras had believed that he had found a preferable solution, less messy and awkward. He knew now that it was naive of him to trust in them so wholeheartedly.

Aside from inconveniencing their plans the child was also a painful reminder that he was, for all he knew about himself, female bodied by birth. There was nothing he could do about that, and this only served to compound that horrible reality. His whole life, however long or short, would always be marred by deception; binding his chest tightly with cloth, carefully tailoring his behaviour to avoid suspicion. It was not a lie, no, for he truly was a man, but presenting that to the rest of the world was exhausting to maintain, and he knew it would cost him everything if he should slip even once. His condition would only make that more difficult; as the child grew his body would change, and before long his waistcoats and jackets would not be able to hide it.

He thought again of Combeferre's suggestion, and could not deny the practicality of it. He let himself entertain the idea briefly, and suddenly he was imagining what this child might be like if he went through with it. The thought that he might have a son to carry the banner for future generations, perhaps as dauntless and fearsome as he, took the edge off the prospect of death. It was a legacy, of sorts.

It warmed his heart a little to think he might leave behind a child raised on his politics and ideals. A child who, when grown, could maintain the free France for which Enjolras was so ready to die. In his mind's eye the child resembled Grantaire a great deal – soft-hearted sentiment on his part, he knew – and inherited his sharp wit and ability to retain information. He fenced and danced with all of Grantaire's unassuming grace, and boasted all of his easy warmth, yet he was precise and single-minded like Enjolras, with his determination and boldness. He was a strange but harmonious marriage of severity and artistry. A clash of the judicious and the Romantic, wherein an absurd balance was struck. A true child of the republic.

The more Enjolras thought on it, the more it made sense to him. There was risk involved of course, but lately it seemed there was risk involved in everything he did.

He wondered if he had been doomed to warm to the idea from the start. Perhaps a little of him already loved the child; perhaps he could not help that. He did not think it were the result of some deep maternal instinct - no, the idea of that was laughable to him - but something else entirely. The child was half of Grantaire, a man he could not help but love.

He did not know if, given his ambitions and circumstances, he could love his child. But, he thought, he surely had no choice but to love Grantaire's.

On that thought he pulled the sheets up over himself, leaning over to blow out the candle on the nightstand and swallow the room in darkness.

* * *

 

It was still dark when Enjolras woke in a cold sweat, his cramps having returned. He sat up slowly and gasped, biting back a cry and clutching at his stomach; it felt like a dagger twisting in his gut.

“Combeferre!” he yelled when the ability to speak came back to him, throwing the covers off of himself and attempting to rise from his bed. His skin burned as hot as fire but he was shivering violently.

The door swung open suddenly, the glow of a candle flooding the room, “Enjolras?!”

Combeferre looked remarkably less put together than usual in his nightshirt, fumbling with his spectacles and stumbling sleepily into the room.

“What's the matter?”

“Help,” Enjolras said, breathing heavily, “It hurts.”

Combeferre hurried to his side, setting the candle down on the table and guiding Enjolras back down onto the mattress, “Lie still,” he urged, “Is there any bleeding?” he asked, looking him up and down. Enjolras shook his head.

“I do not think so. I can't feel any."

"That's good. Does this hurt?" he asked, pressing lightly on his stomach. Enjolras grimaced.

"Yes."

"Hm." Combeferre furrowed his brow in thought, "The tenderness there concerns me," he said, "But if you are not bleeding..."

"Just make the pain go away," Enjolras begged, "Please."

“I...of course. Wait just a moment - I shall be right back,” Combeferre promised, before disappearing down the hall. He returned a short while later with his leather doctor's bag, opening it out onto the bed and retrieving from it a small brown glass bottle. He held it up to the light and pulled the cork from it, using a dropper to suck up the contents, "Here," he said, squeezing the drops into a spoon, "You ought to take it in a tonic of some sort, but I suppose it'll do no harm to have it like this."

Enjolras wrinkled his nose at the smell and looked up at him for explanation.

"Laudanum," Combeferre said, “It will relieve the pain and help you to sleep.”

“It smells vile.”

“It is quite strong,” Combeferre reasoned, “But it will help, I promise.” he added, as Enjolras grimaced again.

The pain was too much; he had not the will or energy to put up any kind of fight about the smell of the laudanum. Enjolras opened his mouth and swallowed, coughing at the way it left a trail of fire down his throat.

He closed his eyes, almost immediately feeling the effects flood over him. His head began to feel lighter as the pain bled slowly out of him, and he was suddenly pleasantly warm, the sensation spreading through his limbs to his fingertips and toes. It was a beautiful feeling. He opened his eyes, stared up at the ceiling to watch as it began to rotate around him. The shadows cast from the candlelight spun and twirled, and for a moment he was taken back to a time when he was small, hiding beneath the table at one of his family's social events and watching people dancing by in their fine dresses and frock coats.

“Enjolras? Can you hear me?”

Combeferre's voice came though thick and distorted, as though drifting to him from someplace far away, but the feeling of a damp cloth across his brow reassured him that he had not forsaken reality entirely. A pity, almost; this reverie was far more pleasant than the real world, and far less in need of revolutionaries.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre repeated, “Can you hear me?”

“I feel wonderful.” Enjolras breathed, scarcely moving his lips; they tingled, yet were numb at the same time, “Ferre, thank you. The pain has gone completely. It is delightful. I feel rather like I am floating."

Combeferre smiled sadly, “Laudanum will do that to a person, my friend. When the urge to sleep comes, do not fight it. You need your rest.”

"But I do not want to sleep," Enjolras argued, "I feel so much better. Have I died?"

"Not to my knowledge, no," Combeferre said, brushing golden curls out of Enjolras's face. The movement seemed slow and strange, "But you do need to sleep."

"Can you see the shadows dancing, Combeferre?" 

Combeferre smiled, "Laudanum, Enjolras," he reminded him.

“Oh. Yes, of course..."

"Rest up. I'm sure you will be fine."

"What about the child...? Is it alright?"

Combeferre blinked, seemingly taken aback by the question, “I did not think that would be of much concern to you...”

Enjolras waved his words away with a clumsy hand, “It will have Grantaire's eyes,” he decided, voice slurred, “He has quite lovely eyes, Combeferre.”

“I cannot say I have noticed. And I am sure the babe is perfectly fine. Stomach pains such as this are not unheard of in pregnancy..."

It sounded to Enjolras as though he were holding back as he said this. He wanted to press the matter, but the words eluded him.

"I hope he doesn't have to fight."

"Grantaire?"

"No. My son," Enjolras said, feeling that the answer should have been obvious, "I hope the world is free and glorious and he doesn't have to fight. I am happy to die for that."

Combeferre sat on the edge of the bed in silence for a moment.

"Sleep, Enjolras." he murmured.

Enjolras smiled drunkenly, patting Combeferre's arm as darkness began to wash over him, “Goodnight, my dear friend...”

 

* * *

 

Two days later he bled.

He woke in the night to the same pains, sitting up to find to his horror that the linens of the bed and his nightshirt were stained red.

"So I have lost the child, then?" He asked Combeferre numbly. When he had cleaned himself up Combeferre had made them both coffee, sitting up with him in his room as he recovered from the shock of the ordeal. He had not wanted to be alone.

Combeferre looked almost as shaken as he was; his hands trembled around his cup, "I cannot say for sure, but I would assume so." he murmured, "I would have to examine you more thoroughly to know for certain."

"I don't want that." Enjolras said quickly.

"I know. I won't insist upon it. Time will tell, I suppose. You will either deliver a child or you will not - but I doubt it."

Enjolras gave a small nod, closing his eyes. He thought of his mother, and the three stillborn sons that had come before him.

He should have considered this a blessing; a swift, natural end to his pregnancy - if that was so - solved all of his problems. Now the revolution could press forward without delay. He should have been pleased. He should have been relieved.

But he wasn't.

He felt as though he had just been hollowed out; there was an ache of grief in his chest that felt absurdly out of place, but could not be denied. He lay one hand against his stomach, realising with an unexpected feeling of loss that the sensation of growing life inside of him would remain a mystery.

Had he really warmed so much to the idea? When he tried to imagine that bold, intelligent child with Grantaire's features the image was now hard to evoke. It was as though something had slipped away from him.

"I suppose it will." he agreed.

"Enjolras..." Combeferre started, seeming hesitant, "I do not know if this will comfort you or else upset you further...but I have a theory as to why this may have happened."

“Tell me."

Combeferre swallowed hard, “It could be several things,” he explained, “It could simply even be that the strain of all of our work has taken it's toll on you. But...”

“But?”

“I must ask,” Combeferre said, “What exactly have you been purchasing from the apothecary? Have you one of the bottles, still?”

Enjolras nodded, quickly retrieving the small glass vial from his dresser and passing it to his friend.

Combeferre took it carefully, turning it over thoughtfully, “It is suspicious to me that they do not list any ingredients. I will have to find out exactly what is in it,” he said, “But I worry it may be the cause. As I once told you, many of these things contain dangerous things,” he pulled the stopper from the vial, sniffing cautiously at the contents, “As an emergency solution, they might not do much damage. But prolonged use...” he seemed as though he did not intend to finish his sentence, or that it were too difficult to do so.

“Yes?”

“Depending on it's contents, they can likely cause damage to the internal organs. Poison, to put it in simple terms."

“You think that is the case?”

Combeferre neither confirmed nor denied, but instead said, with a heavy tone of guilt, “I should have tried harder to deter you from using them...” he set the vial down, a defeated look about him.

“You could have tried for a whole lifetime. You say it yourself, I am stubborn.”

“I could have warned you more harshly. I was trying to find an alternative for you, so you wouldn't have to rely on something some greedy charlitans cooked up using god knows what. This could have anything in it. Yes, it will stop you becoming with child – but only because it poisons your body beyond all capability of childbearing.”

“You avoid my question.” Enjolras said, “Do you think that is the case? I ask that you be frank with me, as my friend.”

Combeferre flinched, jaw tight, “It...is a possibility.”

For a moment, Enjolras let this sink in. Then, rather unexpectedly, he let out a hysterical laugh, “Of course!” he cried, feeling absurdly giddy, “Of course, it is that! It would be what you warned me about! It would have to be! How very typical!”

Combeferre looked at him as though he were a madman, “This is amusing to you? This, of all things? You could die by it."

“No, of course not, my friend,” Enjolras said, still laughing, “But it is ridiculous irony. How wise you are to things, Combeferre, and how prone to ignoring you I am. What a harsh lesson in heeding your words!” he leaned his head against the back of the chair, “If it is at it's worst, how quickly might I die?”

Combeferre recoiled slightly at the bluntness of his question, “It depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you have been drinking. On how toxic it is, on how quickly and aggressively it is effecting you.”

“Will it do any good if I should stop taking the remedies?”

“If the damage is done that will do very little, except perhaps slow it.”

Enjolras mulled this over, “Then we must advance our plans as quickly as possible.” he decided, “May, perhaps. June at the very latest. We cannot dally, if I'm to die.”

“You cannot be serious,” Combeferre said, suddenly firm, “Tell me you are not serious! I need to be sure this is what ails you. If it is then you need rest. You need treatment. Bleeding, to remove the toxins. Perhaps a change of scenery, the city air cannot be good---”

“I do not want to die of sickness.” Enjolras cut across him, “If I am to die I would rather it for my country. God above, even childbirth would have been a worthier death - at least I would be bringing something into existence! No, I cannot let it happen like that. We will continue as planned.”

“It is already April.” Combeferre's voice was now small, and all his usual composure seemed to have left him. He removed his glasses, busying himself with cleaning them as though to avoid Enjolras' gaze, “Do you truly think we can be prepared within two months?”

“If we pull in all our resources, yes.”

“How will you explain away this sudden urgency to the others? If they know about your potential sickness it will make them lose heart. You are very dear to our friends, Enjolras.”

Enjolras felt his heart sink, “I will think on that tonight.” he said, “There must be some excuse that we can use.”

“I'll put my ear to the ground and find out if we can be ready by then, if you insist that this is the way it has to be.” Combeferre promised. Enjolras gave a curt nod, looking down at his feet.

“It is strange,” he said quietly.

“Pardon?”

“I feel loss,” Enjolras explained, “Not for my own life; I made peace with that months ago, before any of this. For the child. Or, for the possibility.” he bit his lip, “I confess I was coming around to the idea that there might be someone to remember me, after my death.”

“You will be remembered, Enjolras. Your sacrifice will be remembered.”

“Will it?” Enjolras sighed, “It is a very self-serving desire, I know. I do not do this for the glory of martyrdom, I do it because it is what needs to be done. But I shall not lie, Combeferre,” he said, “A small part of me thought perhaps a child would not be such a curse. Perhaps I am a terrible person; I desired the...the legacy of a child with none of the hardships of raising one. I could not be a father. Or a mother, as some would say I am. I did not want to raise it.” he said, “But I wanted all of the goodness that comes with it. Someone to grow up hearing of me, and of my ideals. We are fighting for a new world, for a glorious future. I imagined my child might get to be a part of that world, since I shall not. A child of the republic.”

He winced, refusing to look at his friend. It had been one thing to think these things himself; it was another entirely to give them a voice.

Combeferre lay a hand on his shoulder, “I am sorry then, my friend.”

“It is nothing,” Enjolras assured him, brushing him off, “Merely a foolish fantasy.”

For a time they sat in silence, listening to the fire crackling in the hearth. There seemed so much to say and yet also so little.

“Perhaps, in all of this, it is a good thing that you did not speak to Grantaire about it.” Combeferre said eventually.

“Perhaps.” Enjolras agreed, “He mustn't know about this sickness, if that is what afflicts me. None of them must, Combeferre – you must swear that by me. Not even Courfeyrac.”

“You have my word.”

Enjolras nodded. He could not stand the thought of his friends mourning for him whilst he was still there to witness it – it would be to live as a specter, lingering as though already gone, only half present and forced to watch them in their grief. And god, he did not wish for Grantaire to watch him waste away. He tugged nervously at his hair, trying to wrap his head around the idea of dying in such a painfully normal way.

 _Someone like you should not be knocked down by sickness alone - it would be a tragic waste!_ Grantaire had said, _And I'm sure, not a grand enough death, in your opinion._

Oh, how right he was. But it was not a grand death that Enjolras sought, but a death with a reason, and sickness gave no reason to anyone it touched.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Two weeks passed and little was said between he and Combeferre with regards to his symptoms. It was a tense agreement not to discuss it, born from an almost childish notion on Enjolras' part. It was as though he thought if he could sweep it into the corner and leave it be that it might cease to exist, and the problem would go away. It was not so, and he knew it. The stomach pains continued and the nausea and fatigue remained, but still Enjolras would not discuss it. It pained Combeferre not to talk of it, he knew. He could see in his friend's eyes that he desired nothing so much as to press the issue, but the medical student bit his tongue.

They could not ignore it forever though, and eventually Combeferre could restrain himself no more.

'We must discuss your sickness,' he urged one evening as they left the Musain, 'I do not in truth know to what extent you are ill.'

Combeferre had his theories, of course; he held firm to the belief that it was the apothecary's tonics that had poisoned him, but also conceded it could be complications from his pregnancy that were slowly killing him. Privately Enjolras believed it was the latter. He had no medical knowledge, no, but difficult pregnancies had taken members of his family before, and nearly taken his mother, too. It didn't not seem too far of a stretch that whatever problems vexed his mother and aunts in that area might affect him also. A family inheritance not of land or gold, but blood.

The exact specifics were of little consequence - regardless of what it was Combeferre had not the experience or supplies with which to treat it, and Enjolras resolutely refused to see any other doctor. To do so would expose him, and that was not a thought he would entertain. He would simply have to accept the probability of his demise and deal with it; be it poison or pregnancy, there was nothing that could be done for him now. 

It was the most innate trait of Combeferre's character to want to heal, often even when it was beyond his means, and a little part of Enjolras feared that he might insist upon him seeing another doctor. Combeferre's very existence was centered upon the need to preserve life where he could, and asking Combeferre to sit aside and do nothing as he wasted away was to ask him to deny his very nature. It was like telling a wolf to live among sheep, or asking a fish to stop swimming. Sometimes Enjolras had nightmares where he woke cuffed to some skilled physician's table by Combeferre's doing, but every time he eased himself back to sleep with the knowledge that it was a ridiculous fear. Despite his desperate longing to help him, Combeferre respected Enjolras first and foremost. It would agonize him to watch Enjolras die, but he would do it if Enjolras insisted upon it.

And so they continued as normal.

They made their plans and attended their meetings, and every evening Enjolras would stomach another spoonfull of laudanum and retire to bed in an idyllic trance.

Laudanum, Enjolras had swiftly concluded, was a gift from the gods - some magical elixir forged upon Olympus that could somehow ease all of his pains, both physical and emotional. There were times it left him in a dreamlike fog, even dulled his usually sharp mind, but Enjolras found he did not much care so long as he could function.

That such a relief should be found in a small glass vial was truly a heavenly thing, Enjolras thought.

Despite this, Combeferre warned against it's prolonged use - even refused him access to it on occasion.

'There can be too much of a good thing where laudanum is concerned,' he had said.

Enjolras didn't think he would be of that opinion if he were only to try it for himself.

Amidst all of this and the hastening of their plans, Enjolras found little time to visit Grantaire. He would rise early, attend classes, attend meetings, work well into the night, sleep for little more than a few hours and then repeat the whole arduous cycle again. He was not the only one living this brutal routine, of course; all of the key members of Les Amis had thrown themselves into their work with equal vigor, though they knew not the reason for the sudden urgency of it all. Their personal lives had become trivial of late; romantic liaisons were utterly inconsequential in the grand scheme, and matters of the heart had fallen aside to make way for matters of the state.

"It is probably a good thing that you have not been to him of late," Combeferre said, when he saw the longing expression on Enjolras' face as Grantaire left the Musain, "If you are as sick as I believe, it is best that you put some distance between the two of you. It'll be gentler on him, in the end."

Enjolras wanted to share his feelings. He was right, of course, but he could not stay away. Perhaps it was selfish of him to desire Grantaire's company given the circumstances, or perhaps it was only human that he should seek comfort with him, but once again he found himself unable to heed Combeferre's advice.

He held off visiting Grantaire for several weeks before his resolve inevitably broke. As the meeting wrapped up and the group began to file out, Enjolras stayed, lingering behind on the excuse that he wanted to continue with his work. It wasn't entirely a lie - there had been much debate as to the position of their barricade, and he was determined that it was to be settled upon soon.

“Enjolras, are you coming with us to dinner?” Courfeyrac said as he buttoned up his jacket, “You look as if you could do with it. You are peaky of late, dear chief. Has Combeferre not been feeding you?"

Enjolras smiled weakly, a part of him longing to confide in Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac was the very epitome of balance; jovial and loving and full of kindness, he was the all important humanity that a revolution could not lack, lest it fall into butchery. Where Enjolras knew he was too much righteousness and Combeferre too much philosophy, Courfeyrac reminded them that revolution was, first and foremost, for the people. It could not be based solely on pure ideals or political theory, but instead must revolve wholly on alleviating the suffering of those who needed it most. He said revolution must belong to the downtrodden, not the wealthy students who could remove themselves from it. Enjolras and Combeferre often viewed their plans through a purely objective lens, but Courfeyrac, despite the 'De' before his family name, was somehow always in touch with the most human parts of their cause. He was a friend to Combeferre and Enjolras, but also a friend to the world.

“I will pass, thank you,” Enjolras said, shooting Combeferre a meaningful look. His friend gave a curt nod, offering his arm companionably to Courfeyrac.

“Come along and leave him be,” he advised, “We should have both learned by now that pulling Enjolras away from his work is a hopeless cause.”

Courfeyrac laughed warmly, donning his top hat with a broad smile, “Only if you are resigned to so readily giving up!” he joked, “I think he just needs a little more coaxing, like a timid kitten or a bashful young coquette!"

Enjolras forced a smile to his face, "I have other matters that demand my attention tonight, I'm afraid." he said, pointedly ignoring the knowing look in Combeferre's eyes.

Courfeyrac huffed, shrugging, "Very well, I suppose. Have a good evening with your maps, my friend!”

“And you,” Enjolras said, "With your food and wine."

"And good company - do not forget that part!" Courfeyrac called on his way out, looping his arm around Combeferre's. 

He waited until he was sure they were gone before he pulled on his coat and slipped out of the Musain.

-

Grantaire was quick to answer the door when Enjolras turned up at his lodgings. He wore nothing but his breeches and shirt, and had an unopened bottle of wine in hand, having clearly expected it to be his sole company for the evening. When he saw Enjolras he raised his eyebrows, apparently taken aback.

“Enjolras?" he frowned, "Why are you here?"

“To see you.” Enjolras said, taking in the sight of him as though he had not seen him in weeks. It felt in a way that he hadn't; the parts they played during meetings, the parts they played among their friends...they were strangers. The Grantaire that inhabited that dark corner of the Musain in the seat between Joly and Bossuet bore only the slightest resemblance to the Grantaire that inhabited his bed. They had attended meetings together, even locked eyes on occasion, but they had not been alone like this for weeks.

“You haven't been here in a while," Grantaire whispered, as though reading his mind, “I thought perhaps you were not going to come back.”

“I have been very busy,” Enjolras explained, “Forgive me my neglect. May I come in?”

“Of course. Far be it beyond me to turn you away. The streets are not safe at night.” Grantaire said, stepping aside to let Enjolras past him and closing the door. Enjolras pulled off his gloves slowly, dropping them where he stood.

“I love you,” he said, and at the strange look that passed over Grantaire's face he realised suddenly that he could not recall ever saying it to him before. Had he really never said as such? Why had he not? He had had so many opportunities to do so.

“Is that so?” Grantaire asked, voice trembling, “It does not seem possible that you might love a wretch like me. It is more possible that you are not in fact Enjolras but some siren, sent to doom me. Or that the absinthe has finally taken whatever wits I had left, and I am imagining you.” he said, setting his wine bottle down on the table by the door.

“Truly, I do,” Enjolras answered, eyes meeting his, “Forgive my lateness with the words. But I do.”

“And I you.”

Enjolras smiled slightly, "I've missed you these last weeks," he said.

"I had no idea if you'd return." Grantaire swallowed hard, stepping close to him to brush a rogue curl away from his face, "Part of me wondered if I'd dreamed the whole thing, but my imagination is not that ambitious."

Enjolras looked up at him, feeling his breath catch for a moment, "I'm real."

"Good," Grantaire said, "That means I can do this," he leant forward, kissing him deeply. Enjolras melted into it without pause, savouring the familiarity of it, the taste of his mouth and the scratch of his stubble.

The two of them staggered back into the wall as one, Enjolras pushed up against it with a breathless laugh. They struggled to undress each other, both of them pulling at clothing with such lack of consideration for the fabric that Enjolras swore he heard something tear. They broke the kiss for a heartbeat, breathing heavily, chests heaving.

Grantaire's hands, which had moments ago fumbled so desperately with the buttons of Enjolras's coat, migrated down to his hips, pulling him so close that Enjolras could feel his excitement through his trousers.

“I have missed your visits,” Grantaire muttered, lips against Enjolras' neck.

Enjolras laughed, tipping his head back to allow him easier access, “I can tell.” he said, running a hand down the front of Grantaire's trousers.

He would allow himself this, he decided. Be it at the hands of revolution or by sickness, he was a dying man, and dying men were allowed to be selfish. On that thought he brought Grantaire's mouth to his again, kissing him like he was receiving his last rites.

 

* * *

For the longest time Enjolras had hated himself for going to bed with Grantaire. It had been against his character to allow himself to take such a risk. After that first time he had tried to convince himself that it would not happen again. He had merely been curious, he had told himself, and after their hurried rendezvous against the wall of the Musain his curiosity had been sated.

The lie had only lasted a few days; he had been forced to admit as much to himself when he showed up on Grantaire's doorstep three days later, late at night. He still recalled the surprise on Grantaire's face when he had seen him there, hair windswept and cheeks already flushed. He had not needed to ask what Enjolras was there for. Afterwards Grantaire had relayed his delight to him, 'You were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen at my door,' he'd told him, 'Eyes like a hungry wildcat, but still shy as a fawn. It was absolutely charming to behold.'

That second time had been his undoing; the first had been uncomfortable and fumbled enough that Enjolras might have been able to walk away from the experience without craving more, but that second time in the privacy of Grantaire's rooms had been entirely different. He had touched him gently and kissed him like he loved him, and later Enjolras had learned it was because he did. From that night on Enjolras had been fated to doom himself by returning again and again.

He thought about that now, as he lay there among the soiled bedsheets, staring up at the cracked ceiling through the dim glow of the candlelight.

He thought of Combeferre, and what he had said; _'If you are as sick as I believe, it is best that you put some distance between the two of you,'_

His stomach turned.

“We should not do this anymore.” he said quietly.

“So you have said in the past,” Grantaire said, voice hoarse. He sat up, reaching for his shirt, “And yet you continue to come to me.”

Enjolras shot him a withering look, rolling onto his side on the old mattress, “You speak as if you are incapable of turning me away.”

Grantaire pulled his shirt over his head with a mirthless laugh, “I wouldn't dare.” he said, “I might never have you again, if I did.”

“Is that what you think, each time?”

“Of course.” Grantaire turned to face him, “Why shouldn't I? I assumed I would never see you like this again when you stopped visiting my rooms.”

Enjolras said nothing, instead turning to blink up at the ceiling again. The silence seemed all the answer Grantaire needed. He laughed again, bitterly. He got to his feet, picking up the bottle of wine from the table and pulling out the cork with his teeth, “How is it you manipulate silence as a playwright would with words? How is it that no answer from you is answer enough? You lay more blows upon a man with your silence than you could with any insult!" he took a large swig of the wine, "Is it too bold of me to beg a reason, if I'm to be cast off like last season's waistcoat? Have you outgrown me, Enjolras, or am I simply no longer fashionable?”

“It is not like that---”

“Then tell me, please, what is it like?”

Enjolras frowned, sitting upright. For a moment he felt a shiver of discomfort at being so exposed; a foolish notion, all things considered. He searched for an excuse - something that would give Grantaire an answer without revealing the full truth.

“I was with child." he said bluntly.

Grantaire froze, suddenly turning very pale.

"Oh."

"Yes."

Grantaire swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the neck of his wine bottle.

" _Was?_ " he ventured, as though he did not want to ask.

Enjolras pursed his lips, looking down at his lap, "A few weeks ago."

"What did you do about it?" Grantaire asked, voice small, "I assume..."

"Assume nothing. I lost it."

"Oh. Why did you not tell me?" he said quietly, a thoughtful look coming over him, "It was mine, was it not?"

"Of course it was yours; I'm insulted that you would even dare bring that fact into question!" Enjolras hissed, bristling at his words, "I did not tell you because I did not want to think on it."

Grantaire took another mouthful of wine, “Is that where you disappeared to, then?" he guessed, adding somewhat spitefully, "I imagine you are relieved that nature ended it for you..." he said.

Enjolras looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

Grantaire shook his head almost despairingly, sitting back down beside Enjolras on the bed, "Afterall, haven forbid you whelp my bastard! How ever would you explain that to your dear Patria? Or to the rest of the Amis, for that matter? They might have been confused as to how exactly their fearless leader came to have a baby in his belly! You, our paragon of chastity! You could have blamed the divine, I suppose – you are a priest for the revolution, and the ghost of our lady liberty has chosen you to birth a true revolutionary spirit into life! As likely a thing as your triumph in all of this. Perhaps one, he said! Heaven above, we should try again – name the child after Robespierre for your enjoyment, and live another few years for it! Teach the child to load a musket and let him have the revolution!”

“I am glad you find the idea so entertaining.” Enjolras snapped; his words hit far too close to the mark for his liking. He did not want to show the hurt the loss had caused him. “It would have lain all our plans to ruin.”

“Your plans,” Grantaire corrected, “Remember that they are your plans, not mine. And I do not find it entertaining in the slightest, oh Apollo mine. I only remark upon what an absurd position we have fallen into! And I do not blame you at all for chasing me off now, for that matter. I'm sure of all the souls on this earth, I rank the very last of the souls you would wish to procreate with. I have nothing to offer, by way of estate or by my person. What a dull, terrible child ours would be, if it were to take any of my traits! And by the lord, if it had my face!” he smiled tightly, a smile which did not reach his eyes, and took another swig of wine as though to punctuate his sentence, “What a waste of your beauty it would have been.” he murmured against the lip of the bottle.

Enjolras sat beside him in silence for a moment longer, before taking his clothes from the floor and starting to dress himself, “I have no desire to be responsible for a child, be it by you or anyone else.” he mumbled as he buttoned up the breast of his coat. He stood, pulling the ribbon from his pocket to tie back his hair.

Grantaire made a strange noise from the back of his throat, “I both bless and curse that ribbon,” he said, a slight slur already creeping into his voice, “You tie your hair back as though it is some solemn duty of yours; the way soldiers pin medals on their breast. Do you know how many times I longed to pull that ribbon from your curls, before you took to my bed? Too many, for any sane man. Why do you not cut your hair? It is somewhat out of fashion, Courfeyrac might say. You insist you are not a lady, yet you keep the locks! Perhaps you have dreams of returning to your mother and father? I would not know, as you refuse to speak to me on such things. Talk of dreams and desire no longer appeal to you, it seems, unless it involves a musket in one hand and a flag in the other.” he rolled onto his back with a heavy sigh, raking his fingers through unruly curls made more unruly by curious hands, “You are already lost to your revolution. I miss when we used to talk."

Enjolras continued to tie his hair back in silence, jaw set. It was clear from his rambling that Grantaire was fast approaching drunk, and he did not want to be around for it. He could be a vile person with too much wine in his system. Never violent - no, Grantaire was a better man than that - but vicious with his words, self-loathing to no end and difficult to reason with.

“Is it truly to be the last time, then?” Grantaire finally asked, as casually as if inquiring to the state of the weather.

Enjolras looked down at the floorboards, as though studying the wood-grain with meticulous interest. All that he discussed with Combeferre still echoed in his head. If he was dying there was no way around it - would it be easier on Grantaire, he wondered, if they went their separate ways now? Love and revolution were not amicable bedfellows even were he not sick; he had always known that, though he'd been reluctant to acknowledge it. It would have been a lie to claim he did not want Grantaire, but he was wed to a cause far greater than any mortal love affair, and all of that was coming to a head now. The selfish and the selfless could not go hand in hand - especially not now, with his life on such borrowed time.

It was wrong to love one man above all others when his love needed to extend to all. Revolutionaries loved their country, and nothing else; they did not get to play favourites.

“Yes,” he said.

“I should not have doubted your resolve. How tragic and typical that you should tell me you love me and then forsake me. Was it an act of pity that you should say it?”

“No. I mean it.”

“And yet you leave. You meant to leave me even when you knocked upon my door."

Enjolras swallowed hard, “I simply do not have time for you, with our plans coming to fruition---”

“You do not have time for me.” Grantaire repeated; his fingers twitched a little on the neck of his bottle, “Very well. I would not hinder you anymore than I already have, Monsieur. Go, lay down your life for your noble cause. Die on your shield for your Patria like one ancient hero or another. But even when you go down in your flame of glory, I pray, do not forget the wretch who loved you. You claim no man is beneath you, that we are equals,” he licked his lips, dark with wine, “But you are so far removed from me. A cruel thing, to love someone meant for greatness. Sometimes I swear I see the laurels in your hair when the candlelight catches it, but it may be the absinthe.”

Enjolras felt his heart twist in his chest, but no words would form in his mouth, only a foul taste. He was scared that if he tried to speak he would spill his heart, and all his fears would come crawling to the surface.

“Forgive me,” Grantaire said, seeming to grow uncomfortable with the silence his words had brought about, “I do not mean to dissuade you. Would be that such a thing were possible.”

Enjolras looked down, that strange center of gravity that existed solely between them both tuggung at him once. _I do not want to do this,_ he wanted to say. _I want to be with you._ Instead he gave a curt nod, brushed his coat free of dust, and fled, fighting with himself the whole way.

-

When he returned home it was quiet. The house was dark and cold, and the stillness was almost unsettling. Combeferre had not returned from dining with Courfeyrac, it seemed. That was good; he would have chastised Enjolras greatly for what he intended to do.

He let down his hair and changed into his nightshirt, and then headed for his friend's rooms with single-minded determination, furiously wiping the tears from his cheeks. He found the laudanum in his friend's medical bag, not bothering with the dropper, and after swallowing a spoonful of the stuff poured another half-spoon for good measure. A little more could not hurt; it would at least lessen the pain he felt.

The ache inside of him was duller than usual, and he realised with shame that he could not differentiate between a sickness of the body or a sickness of the heart.

Either way he wished for it to stop.

The instant the laudanum hit his system that dreamlike fog descended upon him and the pain began to seep out of him. His head felt lighter, but despite this his legs seemed to weaken beneath him, and as he staggered to his own bedroom he felt himself sliding against the wall to support himself. The hallway began to twist at the end as he made his way down it; it grew narrower and longer, slowly turning, the candlelight warping the patterned wallpaper like a kaleidoscope. 

And then his mother was there - she had come out of nowhere, standing radiant in the middle of the hallway. She looked exactly as she had done when he had left for Paris; the same apricot dress, golden hair so like his own tied up elegantly. She knelt slowly before him, offering a hand, “My sweet daughter...”

“I am not your daughter.” Enjolras said, laying his head against the wall, “I am not. Please believe me, mother."

“Yes you are. Do not talk of this madness any more."

“No. No, no...”

“You will always be my daughter in the eyes of the world.” Her eyes hardened, “You are not right, Marie. You need a doctor.”

“Alas, you are right on one account! I do need a doctor, mother,” Enjolras gave a joyless laugh, “But for this sickness in my body, and nothing else. I am of sound mind.”

She ignored him, "You have brought so much pain onto those around you, Marie.” His mother's voice was uncharacteristically cold, as though someone else were talking through her; she gripped his wrist, her nails like claws, “You have hurt me so much with your antics. You have failed everyone who loves you. You have failed your father and I. You have failed the man that you love.”

“I had to leave him. I had no choice.”

"You broke his heart, Marie. You only cause pain wherever you go. You have failed your child, too.”

"Do not mention my child. Do not! You have no right!" Enjolras said, trying to tear his arm free, "Do not. It was not yet a child...it was not..."

"You murdered your son with your teas and tonics. You failed him." she fixed him with a hard stare, “And most of all, you have failed your friends.”

“No, please, stop..."

“They will die for you, and for nothing. You have failed them, and you have failed your cause.”

“I have not. I would not.” Enjolras shook his head, feeling tears rolling unchecked down his cheeks.

“You will.”

“Mother, please---”

Enjolras looked up, arm outstretched to air, but just as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone.

He let out a sob, lowering himself to the floor and running his hands across the brocade carpet. It was a beautiful carpet, he thought; gold and dark plum, with deep emerald grapevines handwoven into it. He lay his head down, pressing his cheek against it, and closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

“Enjolras! ENJOLRAS!”

His name being called – no, shouted, with great urgency – was what roused him from his unconscious state. He opened his eyes slowly, still lying on his side on the floor.

A blurry shape was running up the hallway towards him, dressed in a familiar navy blue tailcoat, “Enjolras!”

_Combeferre._

“Enjolras, what have you done?!” hands seized his arms with a vicelike grip, lifting his upper half and causing the world to shift quite abruptly back to it's usual position.

“What have you done?!”

Enjolras had never heard Combeferre speak with such anger in his voice; it was an ill-fitting sound to come from such kind, wise lips.

“Enjolras!” Combeferre shook him frantically, eyes wild, “You fool, you could have killed yourself!”

“I only wished to make the pain stop a while...” Enjolras managed – at least, he thought he managed, though from Combeferre's face it seemed it had come out more as an indistinguishable mumble.

“You do not just help yourself to these things, do you hear me?! You do not even know the appropriate dosage! People die, and often, at that! You have a more fragile constitution than most men---”

“Why? Because it is a woman's?” Enjolras laughed bitterly, limp in his friend's arms.

Once again Combeferre seemed unable to interpret his words, for he looked at him with alarm and confusion when he laughed, as though he thought Enjolras had possibly succumbed to madness.

“I left him,” Enjolras said, and this time he was sure the words came out clear.

“I left him, Ferre, just as you told me to from the start...”

Combeferre's features softened, “Enjolras...”

“Combeferre? What in heaven's name is going on?” It was Courfeyrac's voice that brought Enjolras closer to reality; he glanced up to see his friend stood in the middle of the hallway, tophat in one hand, swordstick in the other. He must not have yet taken his leave, having walked with Combeferre back to his lodgings. His eyebrows raised as he took in the scene before him; Enjolras, usually so dignified, half sprawled across the carpeted floor in nothing but a long white nightshirt, hair wild and eyes glazed as Combeferre tried to lift him.

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre said, “Help me with him, will you? I will explain presently.”

Courfeyrac did as he was bid, still stunned.

“What happened to him?” He said, helping to support Enjolras' dead weight. Enjolras was sure he was making a valiant effort to stand, but both Courfeyrac and Combeferre's faces seemed fuzzy and out of focus, and the top half of his body too heavy to support his legs.

“Laudanum.”

“Laudanum? By god, whatever for? Has he turned to opiates to ease his anxieties now?” Courfeyrac cried.

“He is sick,” Combeferre admitted, finally lifting Enjolras into his arms with relative ease.

“I do not need to be carried...” Enjolras protested.

“You are not fit to walk.”

Courfeyrac furrowed his brow, following at a quick pace as Combeferre headed for Enjolras' rooms, “Sick?” he said, “With what?”

“It...that is a complex answer.”

Enjolras closed his eyes to fight the vertigo that was rushing over him as Combeferre walked, not daring to open them again until he felt himself being set down carefully on his bed.

“God be good!” he heard, “He---she---Enjolras is a _woman_?!”

The words were like being doused with cold water. He sat upright, gathering the bedsheets to his chest; the sudden movement from the moments ago comatose Enjolras made Courfeyrac startle as though he had risen from the dead. Of course - he had removed his bindings when he returned home, and with naught but the thin fabric of his nightshirt to cover him, the soft swell of his chest was easily detectable to anyone with working eyes.

“No!” he said, reaching frantically for Courfeyrac's hand.

“Please, allow me to explain!” he begged.

Courfeyrac looked at him, mouth hanging open, and then seemed to find himself again. He set aside his swordstick, lay his tophat down on the bed, and took Enjolras' hand with his own.

“I am listening.” he promised.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI I really don't like the way I'm having to describe being trans. The whole 'boy stuck in a girl's body' thing is ridiculous, but it's the language closest to what they'd have in the 19th century so. Take it with a pinch of salt, from this trans man.

“So, you are a woman, yet not a woman?” Courfeyrac said slowly, eyebrows raised.

Enjolras let out a frustrated sigh, laying his head back on the pillow. Even now, after he had shaken off most of the effects, the laudanum had made his mind unclear and his explanation fall miserably short.

“No." he said, "I am female by birth, but not by mind or practice.”

At this a disturbed look crossed his friend's face; it was easy enough to guess what he was thinking.

“Enjolras...” he started.

“I am not mad.” Enjolras spat, before Courfeyrac could say it, “I am quite capable of all rational thought.”

“I was not going to say that you were.”

“Of course not.” Enjolras mumbled, “Where is Combeferre with that coffee?"

“Please, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said, “Help me to understand. I truly wish to.”

“I do not know how exactly to explain it to you,” Enjolras confessed, staring up at the ceiling, “It is complicated, I fear. But know that to be called a woman breaks my heart. I am not a woman. Please, Courfeyrac, I pray that you don't now see me as one..."

“I see you as my friend.” Courfeyrac said flatly, “Nothing about that has changed, though I confess I am baffled by this new development..."

“Here,” Combeferre said, appearing in the doorway with coffee in hand and a book tucked under one arm. He set Enjolras' coffee down on the nightstand and passed the book to Courfeyrac; he had marked several pages carefully with strips of paper.

“Some writing on the matter.” he said, “Enjolras' unusual predicament is not entirely unheard of. It has been documented throughout different ages and cultures. Many even sympathised with it.”

Courfeyrac scowled, eyes scanning the pages curiously.

“There is information about it in some of my medical books, too,” Combeferre continued, “Though they unfortunately tend to consider it more a sickness of the mind than anything. I do not personally hold to that theory. Enjolras is of a perfectly sound mental state.” he shrugged, “He is as stubborn as an ox, but that hardly counts as madness. I live with him; I would know if he were in any way disturbed. I simply believe he has a male brain in a female body; it is not something that can likely be changed, nor should be."

“Oh...” Courfeyrac turned the page carefully, still looking intrigued.

Enjolras took his coffee gratefully, sighing; his fingertips still felt somewhat numb from the laudanum, but the warmth of the cup restored some feeling to them.

After a few tense moments Courfeyrac looked up again from the book, brow furrowed with thought, “Is this why you do not visit your parents?”

“In part.” Enjolras said, “I also find them insufferable.”

Courfeyrac gave a wry smile, “That does not surprise me. But do they know?”

“That I find them insufferable? I'm sure they have the impression.”

“No, that you dress as---that you are a man.” Enjolras appreciated the slight amendment of Courfeyrac's question.

“Yes, and no.”

“You must answer in clearer terms for me I am afraid.”

Enjolras sipped his coffee, using it to buy himself a moment to consider how to continue.

“They caught me dressed in men's attire on several occasions.” he explained.

"Ah,"

"Yes. And once, as a child, I cut my hair. My father did not like my behaviour, of course. To him a daughter is a useless commodity if she cannot be made a beneficial marriage, and what man of good breeding would make a bride of a woman who claimed to be male?” he shook his head, “I do not know if he thought me sick or merely an embarrassment, but he would not have hesitated to send me away to a hospital had my mother not intervened.”

Courfeyrac visibly shuddered beside him, “I have heard barbaric things about how they treat people for madness.” he glanced at Combeferre, “Is it true?”

“There are some methods I find a little outdated.” Combeferre nodded, “But we are learning more and more every day.”

Courfeyrac turned back to Enjolras, “I am glad you were not subjected to that, my friend."

“As am I.” Enjolras said, “But they were not pleased with me, all the same. They sent me away here to Paris, to live with one of my mother's friends. They thought that spending time with a young lady my own age might solve the issue; that I might suddenly shake off whatever affliction plagued me and become the ideal daughter.” he laughed dryly, “Instead I took to sneaking out around Paris and getting fitted for waistcoats. The family quickly came to see I was a lost cause, and so I took my leave.” he shrugged.

“And then you came to class.” Courfeyrac guessed, a smile spreading across his face, “And here we are.”

“Indeed.”

“I must know, and I am sorry for this,” Courfeyrac said, a playful glimmer in his eyes, “Some of the ladies with which I am...personally acquainted consider their stays all the rage, but I have never thought to ask them if they vex them at all. Are they painful? I know the male corsets some men choose to wear can be a bit pinching, but I heard that in England there is a new fashion of stay that requires women to carry around smelling salts, should they faint from breathlessness!"

Enjolras could not help smirk, “Do you think me of all people a slave to the fashions of the English?" he said, “They were not entirely awful. It was not exactly comfortable, though - I could hardly bend at the waist in the ones my mother fit me for. You would never get me back into one regardless of the matter of my being male."

“They do sound somewhat restrictive," Courfeyrac nodded, "Would that fashion would choose to forgo them. I am sick of struggling with a lady's laces."

"One would have thought you'd mastered that by now..." Enjolras teased.

Courfeyrac laughed, "You would think." he agreed.

A tense silence followed their jesting, and Enjolras knew with a creeping feeling in his gut what Courfeyrac was working himself up to asking. Finally, his friend gave a voice to what they were all thinking;

“Combeferre mentioned that you were sick?”

Enjolras shot Combeferre a nervous look, biting his lip, “Can you explain?”

Combeferre gave a heavy sigh, sitting down in the high-backed chair by the fireplace, “Enjolras is very ill," he said, "There could be several different things the matter with him, but I personally theorize that he is suffering from the effects of gradual poisoning.”

“Poison?!” Courfeyrac leapt instantly to his feet, the book Combeferre had given him tumbling to the floor from his lap, “Someone has poisoned you?” he cried, looking frantically between Enjolras and Combeferre with wide eyes, “Do you think it is because of your politics? Have we truly made so many enemies, Enjolras?”

“It is not that.” Enjolras said gently, setting down his coffee, “I have brought this upon myself.”

“You...why...?” Courfeyrac gaped at him, “Not...Enjolras, surely you didn't intend to...?”

“No, not like that,” Enjolras assured him, urging him to take a seat again.

Courfeyrac lowered himself back onto the bed slowly, picking the book up from the floor.

“Then how? Why?”

“I have been taking remedies from the apothecary on Rue Monsieur-le-Prince. I have learned the hard way not to trust them. Combeferre supposes their contents may have poisoned me."

Courfeyrac looked down in stunned silence. He was made for broad smiles and laughter lines, not the look of anguish that had overcome him to hear of Enjolras's sickness. The look suited him ill, Enjolras thought, and it pained his heart to see his friend that way.

“How serious is it?" he said eventually.

Enjolras looked to Combeferre again, feeling his heart clench. He could not bring himself to answer Courfeyrac himself.

"Possibly very." Combeferre murmured, "Fatal, most likely."

Courfeyrac turned almost as pale as Enjolras, "Then you are to die?” he asked, voice cracking at the last word.

“If it is what Combeferre believes it to be, then it would seem as such, yes.”

“My god,” At that he reached forwards, clasping both of Enjolras' hands tightly; he looked close to tears, “My friend, I...this is unfair. I know no one more deserving of life than you.”

“I have made my peace with it.” Enjolras told him.

“But still!” he shook his head angrily, as though he thought if he took enough offense to the idea he might restore Enjolras to full health, “Would that there was something I could do. Anything. I cannot imagine you to die! You are as radiant as the sun, and twice as fierce - you could surely contend with death himself and win!”

“There is nothing that can help me.” Enjolras said softly, “Combeferre has tried learn all he can about my options. There is no treatment for this that is within his abilities. It is simply something I must accept.”

“God...what were you even taking those wretched tonics for?!”

At this, Enjolras felt his face flood with heat. Even when confronted with his own mortality he found himself embarrassed to talk of his private affairs.

He swallowed hard, “I...was taking something that was supposed to act as a form of contraceptive...”

“A contraceptive?!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, releasing his hands, “By god Enjolras, how many secrets do you have?! Do I know a thing about you at all?” his eyes flickered to Combeferre, suspicious, “So I was correct, then?”

“God, no!” Combeferre groaned, covering his face with one hand, “You are quite mistaken, believe me!”

“Correct? About what?” Enjolras tilted his head.

“Courfeyrac confronted me a week ago,” Combeferre explained awkwardly, looking visibly uncomfortable, “He was aware we were keeping something from him, but...not sure of what, and, well...”

“I assumed you were lovers.” Courfeyrac finished for him with a small shrug.

Enjolras wrinkled his nose, “Combeferre is like my brother!”

“I am sorry! I did not know what to think! You had both grown so terribly secretive around me!” Courfeyrac argued, throwing his hands up, “Whispering so urgently together, exchanging glances across the Musain! What is a man to think? You live together, it was an easy assumption to make..."

"Well you had that wrong, I can assure you. There has been much on my mind of late, and Combeferre has been my confidant in it all..." Enjolras said, not meeting his gaze, "The wretched tonics did not even serve their cause..."

There was a moment of silence, as though Courfeyrac was trying to absorb what he'd just said.

"I...what? You...you are with child?" he said, voice small.

"I was," Enjolras admitted, finally glancing up at him, "I lost it."

"My god, Enjolras..." Courfeyrac took his hands in his own again, looking utterly devastated, "I am sorry..."

"It was an inconvenience." Enjolras said, voice flat; he had rehearsed the line again and again to himself.

Courfeyrac looked at him as though he did not believe him, but fortunately did not question it, "If you are so ill you should not be on the barricades, Enjolras..."

Enjolras snatched his hand away, suddenly indignant, "Do not tell me what I ought to do." he said, "I am a revolutionary first and foremost. Things are in motion now that cannot be stopped. My place is on the barricades."

Courfeyrac turned instantly to Combeferre, "Can you not talk some sense into him?"

"I have tried," Combeferre answered, raising one eyebrow, "You are free to try as well, but I am afraid it may be a lost cause."

Enjolras lifted his chin, as though daring Courfeyrac to challenge his decision again. Thankfully, he did not. He merely sighed, shrugging in defeat.

"Very well." he said, "If I cannot sway you, I will not waste my breath or yours, since you have so little of it left."

Enjolras grimaced.

"Will you at least give me the name of the father?"

"Me, of course."

"You know what I meant."

Enjolras looked at Courfeyrac, warm and understanding to his very core, and decided it was worth it to be honest. God knows he owed it to Courfeyrac to be honest.

"Grantaire.”

"Grantaire?" Courfeyrac repeating, leaning back a little with an astonished look on his face.

“Truly?” he said, dumbfounded, “I was under the impression that you loathed him? He comes to our meetings drunk out of his skull and makes an ass of himself, you scold him for it and he slinks away like a kicked dog; that is the only interaction between the two of you that I have ever witnessed."

Enjolras looked up at the ceiling again, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was going in, “Our relationship is more complex than that.”

“Clearly, if he fathered a child by you!” Courfeyrac said, “Do you love him, or is your affection purely a physical kind of beast? I will not judge you if it is; I am hardly one to make comment on that!”

“I...” Enjolras felt his mouth go dry. He looked to Combeferre; his expression was unchanged, but Enjolras could see in his eyes that he was just as curious to hear his answer as Courfeyrac.

“That is of little consequence," he said.

Courfeyrac did not push, instead adding cautiously, “So Grantaire knows of...the way you are?”

At this Enjolras could not help but laugh, “What do you think, truly?” he said, “He has eyes, has he not? And hands? And other body parts equally as familiar with my anatomy.”

Courfeyrac turned crimson, “Well I assumed as such, but it is a sensitive topic...”

“I thought you more knowledgeable about biology than that!" Enjolras laughed.

“I am! I simply meant that...well I did not expect this from you,” Courfeyrac confessed, “You, chaste by all accounts! And supposedly without a mistress!”

“It is not a lie.” Enjolras said mildly, “I do not have a mistress.”

“No, it would seem not. Instead you are one!"

Enjolras bristled, “I am not – was not - Grantaire's _mistress_. And if he ever called me such, I would have gelded him with a letter opener. He knows this.”

“Forgive me,” Courfeyrac said, “That was in poor taste.” he stood, passing the book back to Combeferre with an apologetic look for having dropped it.

“It is growing late. I should take my leave; you surely need to rest."

“Go safely,” Enjolras said.

Courfeyrac nodded, hesitating a moment before leaning down to kiss his cheeks, “And you, my friend. If there is anything that I can do for you, anything to ease your pain?”

“Just do not tell the others.” Enjolras pleaded, looking up at him plaintively, “Of any of this. Promise me. I could not bear it.”

“You have my word.” Courfeyrac promised, pulling on his coat and picking up his tophat, “I would sooner take it to the grave with me, Enjolras. But I must ask...why did you keep all of this from me?” he murmured, “Was I not worthy of your trust?”

“Of course you were. Do not ever doubt that,” Enjolras said, horrified that he would even think such a thing.

“Then why?”

“It was private,” Enjolras said, “Personal, to me. I did not want anyone to know, not even those I hold dear. Combeferre only knew of it all out of necessity. The less people knew the better.”

Courfeyrac seemed to mull his words over for a moment, and then gave a nod, more to himself than to Enjolras, “I understand.” he said, and offered him a strained smile, “Feel free to call on me for anything you may need.” he said, before turning to leave.

 

* * *

 

Two days passed without event.

True to his word Courfeyrac did not let his knew-found knowledge show; they went on as normal, laying out maps and gathering information.

People were starting to flood to their cause, and their meetings were growing crowded. Flyers were passed covertly between people in wineshops and cafes, and soon the demand outweighed the means. Much of their propaganda was handwritten, the same words copied out again and again (a task Enjolras often assigned himself,) but it was clear they needed a more industrious way of producing them.

It was Jean Prouvaire who found their solution, enlisting a friend of his that worked as a printer to their cause. Soon they had stacks of incriminating flyers stored beneath the floorboards of the Musain, and the sight of it filled Enjolras with hope.

Everything now stood on a knifepoint - all they needed was something to tip it over the edge.

When he arrived at the meeting on the second day the Musain was bustling with activity; Bahorel was sorting through boxes of ammunition, Courfeyrac was finishing up letters to some of the other barricades, and Prouvaire was retrieving the aforementioned inflammatory papers from beneath the floor. 

Grantaire was nowhere to be seen.

He was absent from his usual place between Joly and Laigle, and the seat was currently occupied by a pretty young woman with dark hair that they both seemed utterly enraptured by. Enjolras pushed the observation aside, wanting to believe that Grantaire's absence had no connection to him. He had probably found himself busy, Enjolras told himself; Grantaire was a surprisingly sociable man - he fenced and danced and boxed. Perhaps one of those things had fallen on the same night as their meeting.

He tore his gaze away from their table before it was brought into question, focusing instead on the map that was spread out across the main table.

“So it is decided that our barricade should go up here?” he said to Combeferre, marking the place.

"Yes," Combeferre said, “I also hear there will be one at Barriere Du Maine.” he added, tapping the spot with his pen.

“Is there word from the men from Richefeu's yet?”

“Very little."

"I do not know what is taking them so long---"

“Enjolras!” He looked up from the map as to see Feuilly making his way over to them, weaving among people. He clapped Enjolras firmly on the back, a resolute look about him, “A few of us have decided to go to Place de la Concorde tomorrow, to spread word and distribute some of the new flyers,” he said, “We could use your voice there. There is no better man to handle such a crowd. The city is ready for revolution; the people can feel change in the air. They will be chomping at the bit.”

Enjolras nodded, “Of course,” he said, eager at the very thought, “I will be there.” he vowed.

Feuilly beamed, “Good.” he said, "I can think of no one more suited to it."

Enjolras nodded, leaning against the table. A sudden feeling of nausea had come over him. _No_ , he thought, _not now_.

“Excuse me for a brief moment,” he said, slipping past Feuilly and over to the open window. He steadied himself against the wall, taking a deep breath of evening air and closing his eyes. Curses to Combeferre; he had forbid him laudanum for several days after the recent incident. If the pain in his abdomen returned he did not think he would be able to handle it.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre called from the table, “Is something wrong?” he voiced the question nonchalantly in front of their friends, but Enjolras could hear the fearful undertone in his words. He wondered if Combeferre thought he might just drop dead in the middle of one of their meetings one day.

“No. I am fine - just tired.”

He looked out at the sleeping city, wondering how it could look so peaceful when it was on the verge of such turmoil. He wondered also where Grantaire could be found tonight. He imagined him fencing or dancing, doing either with that effortless grace he seemed to possess; he danced more beautifully than he would ever admit to. He had even taught Enjolras how to lead. Or maybe he was boxing, instead - Enjolras could see him now, dark, sweat damp curls falling into his face, his eyes focused, biting his lower lip as he surveyed his opponent. A shiver ran down his spine at these thoughts, and he flushed, embarrassed by his own imagination and the effect it had on him.

“Where's our grand R this evening?” he heard Bahorel shout to Joly, voice thick from too much wine, “Rare of him not to show that ugly mug of his!” he laughed. It was said with fondness, Enjolras noticed; he'd heard Grantaire refer to his face that way before.

“We tried to drag him from his rooms, but he would have none of it,” Joly said, “We've been blown off for a bottle of absinthe, I am afraid!”

“Ah, is he well?”

“Not at all,” Bossuet said, and this caught Enjolras' attention. He made his way over to the table closest to them, rifling through a stack of flyers and trying not to appear as though he were eavesdropping. Which he wasn't, he told himself; it just so happened that his work took him within earshot of them.

“He was wallowing in misery when last we left him.” Bossuet continued, “We tried our best, but he saw us out. He didn't want the company, and we didn't want to press him.”

“Well, what's the matter with him?”

“It could be just a bout of melancholia. He goes into them from time to time,” Joly mused, sounding fretful on the matter, “I'd like to examine him, if he'd ever let me – there are new methods for curing melancholia. Perhaps they might help him.”

“Melancholia!” Bossuet scoffed, waving the idea away, “Is it not obvious, dear Joly? Our lovely R has been given the boot by his mistress!”

Enjolras froze.

“Mistress?” Bahorel said, “Grantaire has a mistress? I didn't even know, the sly fox!”

“No surprise - he doesn't talk about her,” Bossuet said, “But I've seen marks on his neck that he tries to cover with his collar! I have asked him outright before, and he plays the fool, but it is obvious. God knows why he'd keep a girl like that a secret, though! She must be good company; he sometimes looks as though he's been mauled by a wild animal!” At this Joly and Bahorel burst into laughter, and Enjolras turned rather red.

“Perhaps she's married?” Joly speculated.

“Perhaps - or she's ugly as sin!” Bahorel joked.

“Or perhaps,” The woman who had been sat between Joly and Bossuet spoke up, “He values her enough not to talk of her in such a crude manner.”

Bahorel nodded, giving an apologetic gesture and an over-exaggerated bow, “My apologies, mademoiselle,"

The woman took a sip of her drink, “I think its sad, if that's what happened to him. The poor man.”

"Perhaps it's not a mistress at all," Bossuet put in with amusement, "Artists are rather queer people, are they not?" he jested.

"What are you implying?" Joly said.

"Nothing, of course!"

"He did study under an artist," Bahorel remarked, raising one eyebrow, "It is only natural to wonder exactly how under 'under' meant,"

"Need I remind you there's a lady present?" Joly reminded them sharply, gesturing to the young woman beside him. It was not like Joly to disapprove of crude humour; Enjolras wondered if he was trying to make a good impression upon the girl.

"Let us just agree that we all hope he feels better soon no matter what, poor soul." Bossuet said, "Now perhaps we should get another bottle of wine; I have a great deal of money to mourn over!"

With that the subject changed to Laigle's recent bout of bad luck – he had apparently lost a small fortune through a hole in his trousers that he had not discovered until he had gone to pay the bill in a restaurant – and Enjolras, shaking slightly, went back to the table where Combeferre and Courfeyrac were still discussing the position for their barricade.

As the meeting went on Enjolras could not concentrate; he could only think of Grantaire, alone and miserable, drinking himself into a stupor on account of him.

When the meeting officially ended he excused himself under the pretense of keeping an important engagement with the leader of one of the other barricades, and simply hoped to high heaven that he would not be quizzed about the supposed appointment at the next meeting. Combeferre muttered something under his breath as he passed him, but Enjolras did not catch it.

Once outside he ducked into the alleyway at the side of the cafe, waiting a moment until the rest of his friends had taken their leave and he was sure he would not be seen. He watched Joly and Bossuet leave together arm in arm, playfully squabbling over the young woman who had been sitting with them, and Bahorel stagger out after them a few moments later, drunk and jovial. Combeferre was the last to leave, Courfeyrac at his heel.

"He is a fool," Combeferre was saying coldly, pulling on his gloves, "Does he think me oblivious?"

"Let him be," Courfeyrac reasoned, throwing an arm around Combeferre's shoulders, "Come, have a nightcap with me,"

Combeferre let out a small hum of amusement, "I am sure you make the same offer to all of the girls you are courting," he jested.

"Oh yes," Courfeyrac said, grinning, "But I never offer them my good brandy."

"Ah,"

Enjolras watched them go, waiting until they had disappeared around the corner before venturing out into the street.

He made it to Grantaire's lodgings without being seen, knocking on the door and wondering what he would say to him when he saw him.

It was a good few minutes before he heard someone groping with the latch of the door, and he stepped back when it swung open to reveal Grantaire. He looked as though he had not slept since they had last parted; dark stubble shadowed his jaw, and his curls were even more unkempt than usual. He reeked of sour wine, and appeared to be hungover, which made Enjolras reconsider his previous assessment; either Grantaire had not slept, or had only just woken from a two day long stupor.

His eyes were red and bleary, and it seemed to take him a moment to focus and see that it was Enjolras standing in front of him.

“What are you doing here?” he said gruffly when he recognised him.

For a moment Enjolras couldn't speak; his lips felt dry and his voice was suddenly lost. He had no answer, he realised. He was there because he could not stay away, and he loathed himself for subjecting Grantaire to his indecision.

“Well?” Grantaire said.

“Walk with me,” Enjolras said, not sure where the request came from.

Grantaire eyed him thoughtfully, and then took his coat from the back of the door and pulled his cap over his curls.

They walked in silence for a while, keeping a pace with each other. It was a warm evening, with a mild breeze sweeping through the sleeping city and carrying with it a bouquet of different scents. Horses, smoke, steel, coal and the stench of the sewers intermingled with the smell of sweet pastries being prepared for the morning rush, and the fragrance of lilies from the flower shop nearby. There was something beautiful about the collision of different elements that made Paris what it was; it was blood and sweat and grace and charm. Hideous, and beautiful in it's hideousness.

The thought made Enjolras want to laugh; that was how Grantaire had described himself once, when Enjolras had kissed the breaks in his nose and called him handsome.

They slowed as they reached the riverbanks, walking lazily alongside the Seine like any lovers might. Enjolras felt his heart ache at the thought; they had once taken this very route on a blustery Autumn day, bundled in coats and scarves with a picnic basket of canelés and fine wine on Grantaire's arm. Now they walked with a sombre air hanging over them; a funeral march for their romance, Enjolras thought.

They finally stopped at a point along the river that Grantaire had always seemed particularly fond of, watching the reflections of the street lanterns shimmer on the river's black surface.

“I should not yield so easily to your requests.” Grantaire said, the cool air appearing to have cleared his head a little, “You asked me to join you and I felt myself moving before I had even settled on a way to tell you to leave. You could very probably ask me to die for you and I would lay down and do it.”

“I would never ask that.”

Grantaire shrugged uncomfortably, “I had thought you had decided that we weren't to see each other again.” he said, “I would never have taken you for one to break his word.”

“I never said we could not see each other. ” Enjolras argued, “Only that I would not go to bed with you again.”

“Ah, of course,” Grantaire's laugh was pained, and it cut through Enjolras like a knife, “To hell with my feelings; I can be near you but not touch you! You would have been kinder to pluck my eyes out so I could not see you. It is agony."

“Is that why you didn't come to the meeting tonight? Did you think you were not wanted there?”

“You gave me no reason to believe otherwise.”

“Grantaire...” Enjolras went to take his hand, but Grantaire jerked away as though he thought Enjolras' touch might burn him.

“Please,” Grantaire said, voice cracking, “Please, do not.”

Enjolras stepped back to give him space, his heart sinking into his stomach, “I am sorry...”

“Do not be,” Grantaire muttered, “You have no time for me, you said so yourself. I understand; you made it clear enough. I would not attempt to pull you away from your dear Patria. My arms are surely not as enticing as her's.”

He turned back towards the river, breathing heavily. For a while they fell into silence again, now stood much further apart than before. To Enjolras it felt like a great gulf, as if the distance of the Seine itself had opened up between them.

“Why is that you came to me, then?”

“I do not know.” Enjolras admitted shamefully, “I heard Joly and Bossuet talking about how upset you were. It pained me. I needed to see you.”

“Is the man of marble human afterall, then?” Grantaire remarked, “I'm honoured you thought of me. God only knows that is the most someone like me can ever hope for from someone like you. It feels as though it was always doomed for this. We could never exist together in the same world; we could touch and speak, and even go to bed together, but I do not believe there could ever be a world where you and I shared a life. You are always the revolutionary, and I am always the faithless wretch at your feet.”

“Do not speak like that,” Enjolras pleaded; his words broke his heart. He had never seen Grantaire as anything but his equal. He was his match, in every sense of the word; the only one who could meet him head on and temper that fire that burned within him.

“You are no wretch. Have I not told you enough times how I think of you?"

Grantaire snorted, “I am only someone again when I am around you, Enjolras. And yet you leave me for a revolution!”

“In a world turned perfect I would always be yours.” Enjolras whispered.

“But alas, the world is a wreck and you are Patria's.”

Enjolras looked down at his feet.

“I am sorry I was so harsh to you when we last spoke," Grantaire said eventually, a look of shame coming over him, "Forgive me, please. I should have been more considerate. Even for one who did not want a child, I am sure to experience such a thing was not pleasant."

"No," Enjolras agreed quietly, "It was not." 

"What did you plan to do if nature had not ended it for you?" Grantaire asked casually, a tremor in his voice that betrayed his feelings, “One of those poisons meant for solving the problem? To throw yourself down a flight of stairs? Or were you just to go about your revolution as planned, and let the bayonet put an end to your condition?”

Enjolras felt his stomach coil with guilt; after all, all three of those options had run through his mind.

“I had thought to wait until it was born before continuing with my cause.” he said.

Grantaire turned sharply towards him, the look of a man thrown into utter confusion about him, “What? Why?” 

Enjolras gave a small shrug, looking back out at the river, “It was my child. _Our_ child,” he amended as an afterthought, “It did not seem it would be such a curse to leave behind some part of myself. I am not going to see a free France; I will die to birth it into existence, if you will forgive the wording, but I will not be there to witness it. I will kill to give it life, and there is no place for those who kill to achieve their ends in the new world.” he bit his lip, “I thought perhaps there might, however, be a place for my son. Or my daughter, I suppose, though if it had been a girl I would have feared for her terribly. Even a free world would still be a cruel place to girls.”

Grantaire stared at him, "But it was mine," he argued, "I am a wretch. Why on earth would you ever want a child that was half of me?"

"It is precisely because it was half of you that I wanted it." Enjolras said.

When he glanced at Grantaire again, he was taken aback to see that his face was red, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“You mean that?” he said, “Truly, you mean that? You would have waited? You would have had my child?”

“Yes.”

Grantaire wiped furiously at his eyes, taking deep breaths as though to collect himself. He looked Enjolras up and down with a strange sort of desperation in his eyes.

“Are you completely sure that you are not? With child, I mean?”

There was almost a plea in his voice, and Enjolras knew that it did not come from the desire to have a baby, but from the thought that he might steal a few more months of life with him if he were.

“I am fairly certain. I bled."

“Fairly, but not wholly?”

“Grantaire---”

“Have Combeferre examine you,” Grantaire begged, reaching to take his hand despite his earlier protestations. He brought Enjolras' hand up to his chest, holding it there, “You may not have lost it! Some bleed when with child and yet deliver perfectly healthy children. If you are, I will do right by you, I swear it.” he vowed, “I'll marry you, if you'll have me. I won't let the child go nameless..."

“In pursuit of that dowry again?” Enjolras joked feebly, looking down, “I do not think I am still with child, Grantaire. And even if I was...”

_Even if I was, I am sick..._

“Even if you were?”

“Even if I was, the strain of our plans has taken it's toll on me of late. I do not think I could sustain life inside of me even if it were there. I would likely only lose it later down the line.” he looked at his own hand, still clasped in Grantaire's own, and tried to envision it pale and grey with death.

“Oh...of course...” Grantaire said, releasing his hand, “Forgive me. I shouldn't wish these kinds of things on you anyway.”

Enjolras sighed.

“What would you have done once the child was born? Since I am sure you would still insist upon dying a martyr.”

“I would have sent the child to a farm outside of Paris, or to an inkeep, and bequeathed money to it's care.” Enjolras said, adding quietly, “Or I would have given you an allowance to raise it, should you have wanted to..."

Grantaire scoffed, “You say that as if I shall not be right there beside you bleeding out at the end of all of this.”=

It was Enjolras's turn to be confused.

“What?” he said, frowning, “No...no, Grantaire, you do not belong on the barricades---”

Grantaire cut across him, “Do not turn me away again.” he said, “My place is wherever you are; and I am not trying to persuade you out of your choice when I say that. If I were to lose you and our friends, I would be all alone in this cold world. I would have nothing.”

“A pity I did not give you a child to live for, then.”

“I would have made an atrocious father, if you had.” Grantaire shook his head.

“You do yourself a disservice, as usual. I am sure you would have loved it..."

“I would have loved it,” Grantaire agreed, “I would have loved it more than anything in this world. More than life. But it would have reminded me of you, and I would not have been able to bear it. I would squander your allowance on gin and let our child go about in ragged clothes, like the worthless dog that I am. Do not flatter me by saying you believe otherwise, Enjolras. You know it. You know me.”

“Enough of this!” Enjolras said, feeling like he might not be able to take anymore of their talk, “Please.”

Grantaire nodded, wiping his eyes again. He cleared his throat, “Forgive me.”

“You know that I do.” Enjolras said, voice small, “And I wish more than anything that things could be different for us.”

“But they cannot.” Grantaire guessed.

Enjolras took his hands; he watched Grantaire's shoulders tense.

“They cannot.” he agreed sadly, “But I do not regret what has happened."

Grantaire squeezed his hands in response, “Will you not come back to my rooms with me? Just for tonight? Truly, I feel I did not have the opportunity to make a night of it, the last time. I was unaware it was to be the last.”

The word 'no' started to form in his throat, but it never left his lips. It was unwise, he told himself, to risk falling into this cycle. 'Just for one night' could very easily become 'just for a few', but his heart yearned for it, as, he had to confess, did his body. The two in alliance with each other viciously overruled over his mind; it was growing late now, a slight chill blowing off the river - why would he ever want to walk back to his lodgings alone in the dark, when he could instead be warm in Grantaire's bed?

“Okay,” he said, “Just for tonight.” he clarified, taking his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun corset facts! Tightlacing became fashionable in the 1840's, starting with the pinched in waists of the mid 1830's as Victorian fashion started to make an appearance. As it's 1832, I imagine a few of the more uncomfortable corsets were starting to trickle into the mainstream (in English fashion at least), and Courfeyrac runs in some fashion-foward circles. Mostly I wanted to discuss early 19th century fashion a little because it's amazing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally my only notes on this chapter are 'eyyyyy Enjolras get it son'

They walked back to Grantaire's lodgings arm in arm, Enjolras occasionally resting his head against Grantaire's shoulder. There was nobody out in the streets to see them at this hour but a few drunks, none of whom would pay them any heed.

Grantaire poured them each a dram of gin when they reached his rooms, and though Enjolras made a point of abstaining from drink, he took it. His heart was aching, and though he despised it even he had to commend it's ability to alleviate pain, if only for a while.

"I, uh, thought we could both do with this," Grantaire said, looking into his glass as they sat down at the small table in his room.

"For once I think I have to agree," Enjolras said, sipping it and scrunching up his face at the taste.

Grantaire smirked slightly, raising one eyebrow, "You are supposed to take it in one," he said, demonstrating with his own glass without even flinching, "Like so,"

"I know that, of course" Enjolras said indignantly, wrinkling his nose and following his example. He coughed slightly, grimacing as it burned his throat on the way down, "Urgh," he shook his head, setting down the empty glass, "It is little wonder I never acquired a taste for this..."

Grantaire laughed, his eyes warm, and Enjolras found he could not help but laugh as well.

He looked down, tapping his fingers against his glass, and then rose from his chair to seat himself instead in Grantaire's lap. It was partly an act of seduction, and partly to distract Grantaire from picking up the bottle again.

Grantaire saw through it with ease, smiling wryly, "No more gin," he promised, running one hand along Enjolras' leg, "I want to be stone cold sober when I have you."

"Good," Enjolras said, lips mere inches from his, "I want _you_ , not the man the drink turns you into."

"Are you truly choosing our last night together to chastise me for my vices?" Grantaire asked, frowning, "That is in poor taste for you, Enjolras..."

Enjolras shook his head, "I didn't mean it that way. I'm sorry. I suppose I am just anxious," he admitted, "For some reason, this has me more nervous than the first time."

"Well, the first time was rather unexpected," Grantaire chuckled, "You did not exactly have time to be nervous."

Enjolras blushed, "It was very unlike me." he reminisced, smirking, "I did not even know I had such base feelings until you kissed me, and then suddenly I was as lewd as any man. I had sworn myself off such things, you know? I thought celibacy to be the easiest virtue to maintain, and yet within a matter of minutes you had me undone."

"I consider it my greatest achievement," Grantaire joked, eyes dark with desire.

"I was disappointed in myself for a while," Enjolras continued, playing idly with Grantaire's hair, "I could not understand how I had allowed myself to be so weak."

"I do not understand either," Grantaire said, breathing a little heavily as Enjolras ran his hand up the inside of his thigh, "You, the righteous, rigid saint of revolution..."

"I told myself it was just a moment of weakness; a slip, and nothing more, but I went back to you anyway. And it happened again, and again, and again..." Enjolras moved his hand further up, hearing Grantaire's breath hitch in his throat.

He was staring at him intently, looking like he meant to devour him.

"And I realised there was no shame in wanting you." Enjolras whispered.

Grantaire it seemed could tolerate no more, leaning up to meet his lips with such desperation it startled Enjolras. He smiled into it, letting out a small sound of surprise as Grantaire stood, lifting Enjolras onto the table by his hips and fumbling to open the front of his trousers.

Enjolras broke the kiss for a moment, his chest heaving and his hair in his face, "On the _table_?" he said, unable to help sounding scandalised.

"Truly?"

"What?" Grantaire raised his eyebrows, "You had nothing against being pushed up against a wall outside the Musain, but you are too blue-blooded for the table?" he teased.

Enjolras glared at him, half a mind to slap him for the insult; instead, he pulled him back down to him by his cravat, biting down on his lip.

Grantaire laughed, apparently delighted with himself.

 

* * *

 

“And people still think that you are chaste!” Grantaire said, dazed as he collapsed beside him on the bed.

They had moved to the mattress when it was over, Enjolras insisting that he at least required somewhere comfortable to recover from their activities. His legs felt so weak he feared he might never walk again, but he did not particularly care, given how they'd come to be that way.

He smiled, draping himself across Grantaire's chest, “I am chaste enough,” he reasoned, “I have only had one lover."

“I am honoured it is me, then. You know, we should find a priest,” Grantaire said, eyes closed, still breathing hard.

“Why?” Enjolras asked, “Do you wish to repent all the sins we just committed?” he said playfully.

Grantaire gave an amused hum, running his fingers down Enjolras's back, “No,” he said, “Never.”

“Then why?”

“I meant what I said before,” his voice was cautious, “I'd marry you, if you'd have me. Child or no, I'd marry you."

“Grantaire...”

“I do not even know why,” Grantaire said, opening his eyes and blinking up at the ceiling, “The idea has certainly never appealed to me before you. Perhaps I'm caught up on the illusion that if we are wed, whoever finds us at the end of all of this will be obliged to bury us together. It is a morbid thought I confess, even for me.”

Enjolras closed his eyes, the arm he had stretched across Grantaire's chest tightening around him slightly, “Do not speak like that.” he muttered, “I do not like to think of it.”

“You like to think of your revolution, though.” Grantaire said, “You like to think of that, but not the consequences of it.”

“I do not like to imagine you dead.” Enjolras protested, “Again, I say you do not belong at the barricades. You do not have to be there; you could live. You do not believe in what we are fighting for.”

“I do.” Grantaire said, and Enjolras opened his eyes, tilting his head up to look at him.

“Liberty and love and justice? A new world? No more hunger or cold or cruelty? Of course I believe in that. What sort of artist do you take me for?” he went on, a defeated look in his dark blue eyes, “But do I believe we can accomplish it in our lifetime, or in any lifetime, for that matter? No. Not in the slightest. The world is cold like that, and people will make the same mistakes over and over. We are too greedy, as a species. We destroy and decay; it is what we do.”

“You do not know that.”

“I know enough of man to make that assumption, Enjolras. It is not cynicism, as you so like to brand it, but realism. We are inherently self-serving creatures. Even if your revolution succeeded, it would very likely end in misery, just like the last. People would take advantage of their power, as is the nature of people." he said, "But still, I belong at the barricades as much as any man. I do not believe in your revolution, no. But I do believe in you. Let me do one good thing in my miserable life and die for what I love. I have chosen this, and you have neither the right nor the power to dictate how and when I die.”

Enjolras chose not argue for once; he wanted to, the words lingered readily on his tongue, but he knew how such things always ended for them. The stillness of the night was deceptively peaceful; he did not want to shatter that with the same age old dispute that they always fell into.

“Whoever found us would not know that we were wed anyway.” he said instead, “How would they?”

“Rings, perhaps? Not that I could afford ones of fine quality, of course. You would have to settle for something tawdry and pinchbeck.” Grantaire mused, “Or I would die with our marriage certificate on my person, tucked in the breast pocket of my waistcoat, above my heart. I do not know. But it is comforting.”

“I consider us already wed.” Enjolras said simply, nuzzling against the curve of his neck, “Is there any need for it to be officiated? There has never been anybody else. There never will be.”

Grantaire smiled sadly, “Of course. Til death do us part,” he said wistfully, carding his fingers through Enjolras' hair, “How horribly fitting. Truly, I think neither of us are at the present moment properly dressed for a wedding! I am not one to adhere to the archaic expectations of propriety that I'm sure your family does, but even I would say standing at the altar in nought but your skin is somewhat inappropriate. But I will gladly accept the sentiment and the idea, oh husband mine. And in that case, I have a wedding gift for you.”

“A wedding gift?”

“Yes,” Grantaire said, “Just...a token, really. Nothing of importance.” he shrugged, suddenly almost bashful, “It is probably dreadful, but I ask you to be gentle. I had planned to gift it to you on the second of June, but an imaginary wedding present it could also be!” he slipped out from beneath the covers, making his way over to his desk and starting to search for something. It was hard to believe there even was a desk beneath all the clutter that had found a home there.

Enjolras frowned, sitting up in bed and wrapping the sheets around his bare shoulders, watching as Grantaire threw scraps of paper and bottles aside carelessly.

“The second of June?” he asked, completely lost, “Why? What is the significance of the date?”

“You don't remember?” Grantaire said, before giving a disapproving tut at the blank expression on Enjolras' face, “Of course not! You've never had a head for dates. The second of June marks a year since we began to see each other this way. Can you believe it has almost been a year since we were first pressed up against that grimy wall outside the Musain?"

“I'm sorry that I forgot the date,” Enjolras said, cheeks pink; had it really been so long? “I have been so busy---”

“I understand, dear Apollo. You are quite thoroughly forgiven. Aha!” he made a triumphant gesture and returned to bed, holding something behind his back.

“Hold out your hand.”

Raising one eyebrow, Enjolras did as he said, blinking in surprise as the cold weight of a locket fell onto his hand, the chain coiling like a snake on his palm. It was simple, crafted cheaply of pinchbeck, with a small engraving of a rose on the front. It was old and used and imperfect and quite beautiful for it, he thought.

“A locket?” he said, somewhat taken aback; he did not know why, but it did not seem the sort of gift Grantaire would give.

“Its a cheap thing, I'm afraid,” he said, “You probably have far nicer adornments of your own, but I spent all of fifteen francs on it.”

“Its lovely.”

“Open it,” Grantaire urged, nudging his shoulder lightly.

Enjolras struggled with the latch for a moment before the locket opened to reveal a small and carefully painted portrait of himself. He looked admirable; head held high, golden hair tied back with a ribbon of dark red, garbed in his favourite tailcoat. What struck Enjolras most of all was how masculine he appeared; he still looked like himself - the resemblance was distinct - but perhaps it was the lighting, or the proud posture in which Grantaire had painted him, but there was no mistaking the person in the portrait for a woman.

He felt his heart swell as he closed the locket slowly, eyes stinging with tears.

“Its beautiful,” he breathed, turning to look at Grantaire, who had been sitting in nervous silence at his side.

“Truly.”

“You said you would like to be painted.” Grantaire shrugged, avoiding his gaze.

“I asked - you refused.”

“I could not have handled you sitting there as I painted you,” Grantaire confessed, “Not knowing that you are soon to throw your life away. It would have killed me to do that.”

“You captured my likeness beautifully, even without me there to model,” Enjolras told him, laying his head against Grantaire's shoulder.

“Your face is the most familiar to me of all faces.” Grantaire said, “I see it in my dreams, in my thoughts, and when I am extraordinarily lucky, in person,” he smiled, pressing a kiss to his head.

“I am glad that you like it. I did not think it particularly special, myself.”

“You should not sell yourself so short. It is wonderful. When did you do it?”

“Shortly after you expressed a desire to be painted. It has been sitting around in my rooms since then; I did not know if it was bad practice to give it to you, after you left...”

“Not at all.” Enjolras closed his eyes, “I love it.”

“Good. I had worried you might give me a thrilling lecture on the frivolity of jewellery and romantic tokens.”

“I would never dream of it. A pity you did not include a portrait of yourself in it, though.”

Grantaire looked at him, brows knit in confusion, “Why would you want me to mar it with this face?” he gave a weak, uncertain laugh, “Surely not?”

Enjolras lifted his head, scowling, “I would have liked to keep a portrait of you with me.”

“I do not think I could stand to paint myself.” Grantaire muttered, “I fear it would turn out to be naught but dark colours and shadows.”

Enjolras looked down at the locket in his hand, running his fingertips gently over the floral engraving on the cover.

He stared at it thoughtfully for while, and then handed it to Grantaire.

“One moment,” he said, vacating the bed and stealing the sheets with him as he did, draping them about his shoulders.

“How regal you look,” Grantaire laughed, “Kinglike, almost!”

“Hush,” Enjolras scoffed.

“I'm truly sorry, your majesty. I meant no offense. Your people are quite cold over here, though.” He teased, rubbing his arms as though to prove a point, “There will surely be a revolt against you soon if you do not return to bed. What in heaven's name are you doing?” he added, when he saw Enjolras digging through his things determinedly.

“Wait,” Enjolras said, before turning and hurrying back to the bed with a small knife in hand. Grantaire raised his eyebrows.

“Gods, you're a tyrant, aren't you? If you're going to behead me for treason, at least take me to the guillotine! A small knife would be ever so messy, and time consuming to boot. My landlord would not be happy about the bloodstains on the floorboards. You'd be likely to receive a hefty bill.”

Enjolras swatted him lightly, sitting himself down on the bed again, “May I?” he asked, gesturing to Grantaire's hair.

At this, realisation crossed his lover's face, “Ah,” he said, apparently finding the request both entertaining and oddly fond, “Truly? How traditionally sentimental of you..."

“Hush,” Enjolras said again, “Do I have your permission?”

“Of course.” Grantaire said, tilting his head to the side for ease as Enjolras took the knife and carefully cut free a small curl of dark hair.

“That little? Really? It seems pointless. At least take a full lock, if you're to hack at my hair!”

“I wouldn't want to ruin your hair. I am so fond of it.” Enjolras argued, throwing the bedsheets at Grantaire, “Here, now you may stop complaining of the cold.”

“It is not as if you could make it any worse than it already is,” Grantaire reasoned, passing the locket back to him and watching as Enjolras opened it and placed the curl neatly inside it.

“Your hair is lovely.” Enjolras said, snapping the locket shut and lifting the chain to his neck to put it on. It fell to just beneath his collarbone and sat there well, cold and heavy against his skin.

“Thank you,” he whispered, laying his hand gently across it. The constant weight of it against his chest felt comforting; a steadfast reminder of Grantaire's affections.

“It is only hair; where we're going I likely don't need it.”

“I mean for the locket. And the painting. And the hair too, I suppose. Thank you.”

“You're very welcome, then,” Grantaire said, running a hand through his curls absentmindedly as if he could feel where the hair had been cut, “It is just a trinket.”

“It is important,” Enjolras said, pulling the bedsheets across both of their shoulders, “As are you.”

“Whilst I generally disagree with your statement, your flattery will get you absolutely everywhere, monsieur.” Grantaire smirked, pressing a warm kiss to the side of Enjolras' neck.

“I do hope so.”

For a while they simply sat there, Grantaire brushing his lips against his neck and Enjolras reveling in the feeling. Finally though, the realisation that it was late began to creep up on them.

“I will have to leave early in the morning,” Enjolras said woefully, shivering as Grantaire ran his hand along his side, “I have to be at Place de la Concorde with Feuilly and some of the others by ten.”

“I would not try to dissuade you,” Grantaire promised, his lips just beneath Enjolras' ear, “You have made your intentions clear. But I shall pretend it is just another night, until morning hurries in and steals you away from me.”

“Good.” Enjolras said, swallowing hard, “Then we should make the most of the night whilst we still have it.”

“Perhaps,” Grantaire agreed, “Afterall, a marriage, even an imaginary one, should surely be properly consummated...”

Enjolras managed to smile again at that, turning his head so that Grantaire's lips caught the corner of his mouth, “I agree.”

 

* * *

 

It was still early when Enjolras woke, roused by the smell of fresh bread from the bakery below. He and Grantaire were still pressed close, their legs tangled together beneath the sheets.

He smiled as he felt arms slip around his waist from behind, chapped lips brushing against his shoulder, “Will you stay and have breakfast with me?” Grantaire's voice was rough and sleepy.

Enjolras stretched out his arms, shielding his eyes from the sun, “What is the time? My watch is in the breast of my waistcoat...somewhere...” he gave a careless wave, “Wherever it was thrown, in our haste.”

Grantaire rolled over, fishing the pocketwatch from said item of clothing, “Only just past seven.”

“We scarcely slept at all, then,” Enjolras remarked, cheeks turning pink.

“I cannot say I mind.” Grantaire said, “I pray, stay for an hour, at least. The bakery downstairs opens early, can you not smell it?”

"Yes..."

“They do lovely pastries. You know that.” Grantaire coaxed, “Their canelés are the most delicious in Paris, if I do say so - though I am probably biased.”

“Very well,” Enjolras yawned, sitting upright as Grantaire left the bed. His hair had become a reckless mane overnight, corkscrew curls springing off in different directions as if they were trying to escape his head. He shivered from the early chill, looking down at the locket hanging just beneath his collar.

“I will not lie,” Grantaire said as he pulled on his trousers, “There is something delightful about seeing you wearing nothing but that locket.”

Enjolras felt his cheeks grow hot, “You are incorrigible."

“I am just a firm believer in not wasting time," Grantaire argued, "I'm glad that you like the locket so much,” he added. He was smiling, but it did not quite reach his eyes, as though the reality of the situation between them was starting to work it's way into his thoughts.

“I...wait here, and I'll go down and get us breakfast...” he looked almost nervous as he donned his coat, as though he thought Enjolras might run out on him in the few minutes it would take for him to make his way down to the bakery to purchase a few pastries and return again. Enjolras lay back down in bed, sprawling out as though to make a point that he was staying put.

“Hurry then,” he urged, closing his eyes, “I'm absolutely famished.”

Grantaire nodded, pulling on his cap, “I'll be back before you have even noticed that I'm gone.” he promised, opening the door.

Their breakfast was a quiet affair, the two of them sitting close together on the mattress as they devoured the pastries and tarts that Grantaire had bought. It was easy to pretend that this was just another normal rendezvous between the two of them; that he would leave with a pleasant word, a kiss upon the cheek, and a promise to return again soon.

He sighed as he glanced at his watch again, noticing the hour hand creeping closer and closer to ten. Time was a terrible traitor to happiness. He had never noticed how quickly it seemed to take it's leave until he had learned how little of it he had left.

“It is almost nine,” he said, “I have to leave.”

Grantaire reached forwards to take his hand without a word, lacing their fingers tightly together, “Very well.” he said, “I suppose this will be the last we see of each other, aside from the meetings.”

“You will still come to them?”

“Of course.” Grantaire said somewhat indignantly, “I told you that I would follow you to the end, did I not?”

“You do not have to. I will not stop asking you to spare yourself. You do not need to die for a cause you do not believe in.”

“And I will not stop telling you that I will be on the barricades whether you will it or not. We will argue about this forever Enjolras, and never agree.”

For a while they sat there in heavy silence, hands still pressed together. Finally, Enjolras pried himself free, placing one last kiss against Grantaire's lips. His mouth tasted sweet, like the tarts, and Enjolras prayed he would recall the taste for the rest of his days, however few of them he had left.

“Goodbye...” Grantaire mumbled, unable to look at him as Enjolras left the bed and began to dress himself. Enjolras could not find it in himself to say it back.

He walked home quickly, heart feeling like a weight inside his chest. He prayed that this time he would have the resolve to stay away for good; it wasn't fair on Grantaire. It was to give the man a faint flicker of hope only to snatch it away, and Enjolras hated himself for it.

Combeferre was awake when he reached their lodgings, looking a little worse for wear following his nightcap with Courfeyrac. As he made his way past the drawing room Enjolras half expected a lecture, or at least a knowingly-phrased question about his whereabouts the night before, but to his credit Combeferre only glanced at him from over the top of his book and returned to reading.

Enjolras was grateful - he did not think he could stomach the humiliation of having to admit his personal weakness for Grantaire, nor endure the heartache that would come with discussing it. He washed his face and changed his clothes quickly, making a valiant effort to tame his hair. Grantaire's hands were always too eager with his curls.

He sighed, for a moment trying to prepare himself for the task ahead, and then hurried into the study to retrieve everything he needed.

“Combeferre," he called loudly, "Where are the new flye---” He broke off with a cry, doubling over where he stood.

The pain in his abdomen had returned, striking him down with a vengeance. He sunk to his knees on the floor, clutching his stomach.

“Enjolras?!” Combeferre had come running into the room, his eyes wide with alarm, “God. Sit down,” he urged, helping Enjolras to his feet and supporting him over to a chair.

“It hurts,” Was all Enjolras could get out; it felt a terribly understated way to describe the feeling tearing through his gut like a scythe.

“Breathe deeply,” Combeferre said, “Are you nauseated?”

“Quite.”

“It will pass,” he soothed, laying the flat of his palm against Enjolras' forehead, “You do not have a fever, thankfully.”

“Small mercies. God, if I am truly to die by this can it not have the courtesy to make it quick?” Enjolras said, gripping the arms of the chair, “What's the time?”

“Nine forty-five--"

“Already? I should have left by now!” He made to stand, but Combeferre forced him back into the chair, “I have to meet Feuilly at Place de la Concorde---”

“Absolutely not!” Combeferre said, aghast, “Have you lost your wits?! You are in no position to do anything, let alone shout your politics into an angry crowd!”

“I will not sit this out,” Enjolras demanded, seizing Combeferre's arm with a wild desperation, “Please. I will manage just fine. Give me some laudanum – not enough to knock me out, enough to keep me on my feet – and I'll be just fine. It does wonders. Please.”

“You do not need laudanum. You need rest.”

“I will rest just fine when I return from Place de la Concorde!” Enjolras insisted.

“You cannot possibly be serious about this.” Combeferre said, though he looked resigned. He knew him well enough to know that Enjolras meant what he said.

“I will not sleep well if you make me stay at home.” Enjolras said, “Let me go, and when I return, I shall sleep like the dead if you will excuse my phrasing. I swear, you may lock me away in my bedroom for days if you think it necessary for my health.”

“Enjolras---”

“Just give me laudanum.” He repeated, “Only a little. Enough to ease the pain.” _All the pain,_ Enjolras thought. _Both in my body and in my heart._

Combeferre hesitated, “Enjolras, I could not do that...”

“Please.” Enjolras begged, “My friend, please. This means a great deal to me. What would our friends think, if I were not there?”

“They would think nothing, if I told them you were indisposed.”

“I cannot let them know that I am ill, Combeferre,” Enjolras said, trying to breathe through the pain, “Not even a little; I swear that they know something is amiss. They have seen how pale and faint I am of late; anybody surely can. I am sure they whisper about it among themselves. I cannot let them see weakness, or they might lose heart.”

Combeferre grimaced, removing his glasses and wiping them anxiously with his kerchief, “I...very well...only half a spoonful.” he muttered, “And I will be escorting you to Place de la Concorde.”

“I do not need a chaperone.”

“Then do not think of me as one.” Combeferre said, “Instead, tell yourself that I have simply decided to come along with you to hand out flyers.”

Enjolras sighed, “Very well,” he said, grimacing again as the feeling in his gut tightened, “Please, get me the laudanum.”

Combeferre hesitated a moment, clearly still reluctant, and then went to retrieve his medical bag.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Enjolras felt as light as a feather by the time they made it to Place de la Concorde, the pain in his abdomen chased away by the warm embrace of the laudanum. The weather was fine, the sun beating down against the back of his neck, a sure sign that summer would soon be in full swing. It was good, he thought; people's tempers always seemed to rise with the heat, and it would be far easier to incite a crowd to take up arms if they already found themselves hot and irritable.

Feuilly was already there when they arrived, a stack of flyers tucked under one arm, a cap pulled over his head to keep the sun out of his eyes.

“Combeferre,” he said when he saw them both, smiling widely, “I did not know that you would be joining us!”

“Nor did I,” Combeferre remarked, “It was rather a last minute decision.” his eyes flickered to Enjolras, who was already trying to pry some of the flyers from Feuilly's arm.

“Enjolras, you brought some with you.” Combeferre reminded him, holding out the papers he was carrying.

“Ah, yes,” Enjolras nodded, “Of course,” he said, taking them from Combeferre and promptly dropping half of them; his hands felt utterly useless, his fingers tingling. Feuilly's eyebrows shot up as Enjolras dropped to his knees to begin gathering them up, giggling to himself. He did not know why, but something about the situation was hilarious to him.

“Is he quite alright?” Enjolras heard Feuilly ask, “He seems rather out of sorts this morning...”

“He did not get enough sleep, you must excuse him,” Combeferre said, kneeling down to help Enjolras with the flyers, “A lack of proper rest and too much work can do strange things to a man's mind. I'm sure you know, being a working man yourself.”

When the flyers had all been collected Combeferre stood, pulling Enjolras up by his arm and steadying him as he swayed heavily to one side, as though drunk.

“I see.” Feuilly said, concern etched into his features, “Very well...come, Courfeyrac is currently riling up a crowd with our propaganda. He has already set fire to two government notices in his excitement, and I believe him to be starting on his third...”

“I should like to watch that!” Enjolras cried, apparently a little too enthusiastically judging by the worried look that Feuilly shot him. Combeferre sighed, still keeping a vice-like grip on his arm as they made their way towards a crowd of people, Enjolras teetering on his feet.

“Please give your best attempt to appear sober.” Combeferre said through gritted teeth.

“Am I not doing so already?” Enjolras questioned, captivated by everything that was going on around him. Paris seemed more full of life than usual today. 

“You were crawling around on your hands and knees.”

“I am not unfamiliar with the position.” Enjolras said, unaware that he was even saying it aloud until he saw Combeferre's cheeks turning very red.

“Please spare me such details.” he said, “And no matter how familiar you are with the position, do refrain, if possible.”

“I will. He gave me a locket, Combeferre,” Enjolras said, voice slurred as he fished gracelessly down the front of his shirt for the item in question, brandishing it proudly in front of his friend when he found it.

“That's nice. Now put it back,” Combeferre said, urgently trying to stuff it back down his front, “People will ask questions about it.”

“It was a wedding present,” Enjolras continued, as though he had not heard him.

“A _what_?!” Combeferre hissed, stopping short and lowering his voice, “Good god, Enjolras, please tell me that you didn't?”

“Why? What business is it of yours if I did?” Enjolras said, suddenly rather offended. He had little time to live – what did it matter to Combeferre if he was wed or not? It was none of his business. He had half a mind to run off and do it now that Combeferre had objected to it.

“You must have witnesses present at a wedding.” Combeferre said, “Please do not tell me some stranger has seen the two of you together taking vows! What if they were in this crowd? What if they were to recognise you?”

Enjolras frowned, “No.” he said, “There was no wedding. It was a marriage more in spirit than in law.”

Combeferre let out a visible sigh of relief, “Good. Please, Enjolras,” he begged, “Try to show a little composure. I know the laudanum makes that difficult, but you did insist. Do not make me regret it.”

“I will be fine, Ferre,” Enjolras said, patting him on the chest with a clumsy hand, “Truly. I feel of perfectly sound mind.”

That was not, strictly speaking, the truth. The world seemed unable to decide what angle to stay at, drifting and tilting to the side now and then. Everything was happening in rather shocking excess; it all seemed louder and more intense than usual.

“Then please,” Combeferre said, “Try to act like it.”

“I will manage.” Enjolras assured him, freeing himself from Combeferre's grip as they reached the crowd that was gathered around the steps. Courfeyrac was shouting about something, though Enjolras could not quite distinguish what, as Jean Prouvaire passed out flyers to eager hands.

Courfeyrac caught his eye and smiled, gesturing eagerly for Enjolras to join him.

“Enjolras---” Combeferre lay a hand against his back as he moved forwards, “Are you quite sure this is wise? The laudanum---”

“I will be fine,” Enjolras repeated, thrusting the flyers he had been holding to Combeferre, “Do not coddle me like a child. Hand these out."

Combeferre sighed, letting him go and stepping back to watch. Enjolras could not help but think his feet felt dangerously light as he ascended the stairs; everything around him seemed to be moving slowly, and that, combined with a heavy head, made him sway unsteadily as he joined his friend.

“Do we simply sit around and let them have their way?” Courfeyrac was yelling, “The powers that be claim to speak for you! To act in the interests of the common citizen! Yet where are they, when it matters? Have you ever been approached by these supposedly great and noble men, and offered help to feed your hungry?” shouts of anger from the crowd, “You, monsieur," he said, pointing to someone in the crowd, "Has the king ever come to your home and clothed your children?"

The man laughed, "No, monsieur!"

"Exactly! He and his ilk do not care! They still dine on silver plates and think that you will settle for crumbs!”

Cries of outrage and agreement greeted his words, demands for the death of the king. 

“It is time for change! A country is not a king, it is it's people!” Courfeyrac said, clapping Enjolras firmly on the shoulder, “Isn't that right, my friend?”

It was a clear opening for Enjolras to begin his own rhetoric, he could tell, yet the words seemed to fail him, drying up in his mouth.

Looking into the sea of maddened faces, Enjolras found he could not focus. He had much to say; pages and pages stored in the back of his mind, ideals and passions and the words to inspire them to fruition, and yet none of them would find him now. His usual eloquence had abandoned him; it seemed the pain in his stomach was not the only thing that the laudanum had banished. 

His eyes sought out Combeferre amid the crowd, searching for his face for reassurance, and then suddenly the ground seemed to jerk from beneath his feet.

He fell forwards, Courfeyrac catching him before he could slip from the steps.

“Easy there,” he said, trying to laugh it off in front of their audience though Enjolras could hear the alarm in his voice, “Perhaps you are in need of new boots, my friend; they seem to have lost their grip.” he said, exchanging a look with Combeferre, who pushed his way to the front of the crowd and stepped in before anyone else could.

“I think that maybe I should walk Enjolras home,” he suggested, “He is overworked, clearly.”

“No, no, Ferre, no, I am fine. I am _fine_...” Enjolras mumbled, struggling to string the words together correctly.

“I am just _fine_...”

“Is he alright?” He heard Prouvaire say. He had stopped passing out flyers, distracted by the commotion.

“Of course I am!” Enjolras insisted.

“Clearly.” Combeferre said, putting an arm around his waist to steer him away from the others, “We will convene again at the usual time and place,” he told them, looking somewhat apologetic, “When Enjolras is well.”

“All our best to him,” Feuilly called as they departed.

“This was an unwise decision,” Combeferre said, for Enjolras' ears only, “And I blame myself for giving into your whims so easily. You need to sleep it off, my friend. And please, never ask me to drug you for the sake of your politics again! Your presence here today almost did more damage than good.”

“I won't ask it of you again,” Enjolras promised, head still cloudy, “I am sorry that I did to begin with.”

“Its quite alright. And perhaps, in future, keep your 'wedding gifts' more well hidden.”

“I will.”

“You will not be given any more laudanum from now on.”

“What?!” Enjolras stopped dead, looking at Combeferre with utter betrayal, “For what reason do you forbid me from it? It helps me!”

“It has been the downfall of a great many good people, Enjolras,” Combeferre said firmly, “You cannot lean on it as a crutch too often.”

“I do not! How dare you?" Enjolras said, wounded by the accusation, "I would never---"

“You have been practically living off it!"

Enjolras stared at him, outraged; he tried to push him away to make a point, but immediately found his balance severely lacking without Combeferre to support him.

“So what am I to do for pain relief?” he said hotly, “Just learn to live with it? Maybe bite down on a spoon so that I do not bite off my own tongue?”

“I will find you an alternative,” Combeferre promised him, “One that does not make you behave like a child in public.”

Enjolras flushed, finding that he could not muster an argument against him. He was not sure if it were because the laudanum had made his head fuzzy and useless, or because Combeferre spoke the truth. He chose to believe the former.

 

* * *

 

Combeferre ordered him to bed when they got home, and Enjolras, though loath to comply, went. He had, after all, sworn that he would take Combeferre's advice if he allowed him to go to Place de la Concorde. Combeferre had kept his half of the bargain, even if Enjolras had only succeeded in making a spectacle of himself.

He had been in bed for no more than ten minutes, a book open on his lap, when Combeferre entered the room with a bowl of soup.

“Not that again,” Enjolras sighed, “I've told you before it is as weak as water.”

"Its food, that's all that matters.” Combeferre said, setting the bowl down on the nightstand and taking a seat on the edge of the bed, “Eat what you can, and then sleep,” he said gently, “You need it. You are not weak for needing to rest. You are very sick. There is no shame in taking care of yourself.”

“You can dismiss yourself from my room if you're only here to scold me.” Enjolras said, ignoring him in favour of the book. His head still felt foggy from the laudanum, and the words on the page made little sense.

“I am not here to scold you.” Combeferre said, "But you must confess, laudanum has made a fool of you," he leaned forwards, snatching the book from Enjolras and placing it back in his hands the correct way up. Enjolras had not even realised it was upside-down. He pouted, pride wounded.

"It offers me comfort," he argued.

"And has led many to ruin." Combeferre said, "You will not be having any more. You are dear to me, Enjolras. To all of us. I only want to help you, but I can only do so if you allow me to.”

Obstinate though he perhaps was, Enjolras felt his anger fade. He looked at him sadly, closing his book, and reached forwards to take Combeferre's hand, “I know. I am sorry, my friend. For my stubbornness. For the things that I ask of you.” he said, “I also know that I have perhaps not been a good friend, as of late.”

“Enough of that,” Combeferre said, “You speak as if you're on your deathbed already. I plan for us to have many more months of me chastising you for your hard-headedness,” he teased, though his words caught a little in his throat and he gripped Enjolras' hand tightly.

“Your frustration has been understandable." he said, "You have had a lot to concern yourself with lately."

“And you have concerned yourself with me, when you have no obligation to,” Enjolras whispered.

“I choose to. We are brothers, Enjolras,” Combeferre insisted, “Perhaps not by blood, but all the same. You, Courfeyrac and I.”

Enjolras smiled, “I do not think my family could have produced such fine brothers for me if they had tried.”

“Well a family could not have three great men to it's name,” Combeferre joked, “That would surely be dreadfully unfair.”

Enjolras laughed, “Indeed.”

There was a beat of silence, and then, “So you were with Grantaire last night?”

Enjolras turned his head away almost ashamedly, “Yes.”

“I thought you had ended your affair with him?”

“I did.” he said, “Last night was...our last evening together, I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“I am weak over him.” Enjolras confessed, running a finger along the spine of his book absentmindedly, “When I am apart from him, I miss him terribly. When I see him, I cannot help but gravitate to him. In truth I do not know if I can stay away – or, for that matter, if I should even try.”

“That is what love does to a person, I am afraid.” Combeferre said, “At least I've been told.”

Enjolras sighed, “He wished for you to examine me.” he told him, “To be certain that I am not still with child. I think he clings to the idea that if I were so, he might have a few more months of life with me.”

"Oh."

"Is it possible, Combeferre?"

"Yes, it is possible, I suppose; there was no so much blood, in truth. Though I am afraid little would come of it even if you were; you are likely far too ill to carry to term. I can examine you, if it would put your mind at ease,” Combeferre offered tentatively.

“No,” Enjolras shook his head, gripping the book tightly, “I...would not like to know, if I am. Another worry. False hope for something good to come of all of this. It would not do anyone any good.”

“You are starting to speak like him,” his friend muttered, “His cynicism fits you ill, like a badly tailored coat. Are you losing heart?”

“Not for our dream of revolution, no.” Enjolras said, mustering into his voice all the fire that he could; he did not want Combeferre to doubt his resolve to the cause, not now, not so close. 

“I know what must be done. I know the cost, and the means, and I am ready to pay the price. But all other things...” he said, “I am human, afterall. I fear not for myself, but for Grantaire. I fear for my mother, who will soon be alone. I fear for you, my friend, and the others, and what will come of them.”

“I am glad you fear for these things,” Combeferre admitted, “It means revolution has not taken your humanity from you.”

“But it will, before its over,” Enjolras said, “I will have to kill, at some point. I am almost glad that I will not have to live with that.”

Combeferre looked down, swallowing loudly, and Enjolras suspected he was trying to school his features into his usual look of composure. Finally, he glanced up, once more looking as certain as Enjolras had expected, “Get some rest.” he said, standing, “If you have need of me, do not hesitate to shout. I have some business I need to attend to, anyway."

“What business?”

“Do not concern yourself with it,” Combeferre said, patting his arm lightly, “You have enough to trouble yourself with as it is.”

 

* * *

 

When Enjolras woke it was very late, that hour when morning and night are so intimately joined it is as though the sun and moon are lovers. The candle on his nightstand was flickering weakly, having nearly reached the end of it's lifespan. From beneath the door Enjolras could see a dim glow coming from the study; it seemed Combeferre was still working, even at this strange hour.

He slipped out from under the covers, padding silently down the hallway in his nightshirt, bare feel cold against the wooden floor.

“Combeferre?” he pushed open the door to the study, surprised when he saw his friend hunched over at the desk in his chair, head in his hands. His body was shaking, the noises he was making broken and hard, and it took Enjolras a few moments to realise that Combeferre was crying. It seemed such an impossible thing that for a second Enjolras found himself utterly useless, frozen to the spot in the doorway, hand still resting on the doorknob. Combeferre had always been a pillar of strength in all things, and Enjolras could not recall having ever seen him cry before.

He hurried across the room to him, pulling him immediately into his arms.

“Combeferre---”

“Enjolras, I---”

“It's okay,” Enjolras said gently.

“Why are you awake?” Combeferre said, turning his face away; it was clear he did not want Enjolras to see his tears. A rare thing, for Combeferre to be the proud one, for Combeferre to be the one in need of comfort.

“You should be asleep. Go and rest---”

“Not until I know that you are alright.” Enjolras said firmly, holding him tightly, “You can weep, if you need to. Lord knows I will need to before this is all over. You know that I shall never judge you, my friend.”

Combeferre flinched but did not protest again, instead resting his head against Enjolras as he sobbed. It was a painful sound to endure, raw and unfamiliar, but Enjolras stood there in silence, stroking his hair and letting him exhaust his tears until there were no more to be shed.

“What were you doing?” he asked, gaze wandering to the desk. Combeferre did not respond. There were pages strewn about, letters it looked, some of them sealed and addressed, others half-composed. As he studied what Combeferre had last been writing, he felt his heart drop into his stomach like a stone; it was addressed to Enjolras' mother. There was one beside it, neatly folded, the envelope reading 'Monsieur and Madame De Courfeyrac', and one for Prouvaire, and one for Joly...

“You are writing to our families.” Enjolras guessed, “Why?”

“They are not to be sent,” Combeferre whispered, voice wavering, “Not yet. Not until...”

Enjolras closed his eyes as realisation came to him. 

“I'm sorry.” he said, “I'm sorry for all of this."

“Do not apologise. I know the risks involved in what we do. We all do. And we choose to do so anyway, of our own volition, for what might come of it. But I...someone has to do this and...it is proving difficult, I admit.” Combeferre said, “I...I did not know what to write for yours, and writing Courfeyrac's, I...I couldn't, I...” he lost his voice again.

“Its okay,” Enjolras murmured, “I can help you,” he offered, though he feared he would be no better equipped for the task himself. He wondered if he should write one for Grantaire's family; his father did not care for him, Grantaire always said so, but he had a mother and two younger sisters. They should surely be informed if Grantaire was serious about his decision to come to the barricades. The thought of penning such a letter made him feel sick. He tightened his arms around Combeferre, not sure now if it were for his benefit or his own. 

“You have too much to worry about as it is." Combeferre argued. 

“But I will help you all the same.” Enjolras said, “Please. Let me help.”

Combeferre said nothing, instead taking deep, shuddering breaths, “A letter arrived for you.” he said eventually, changing the subject, “From your family.”

Enjolras frowned, “I will read it in the morning. It is late, Ferre. You cannot tell me that I must rest and then work yourself to death like this.” he scolded, “Sleep. Leave the letters til tomorrow, they will not fly out of the window overnight."

Combeferre drew back from him, wiping at his eyes; he looked utterly exhausted, both from his tears and from straining his eyes in the candlelight to write.

“You are quite right, of course,” He sighed, “I am sorry, Enjolras, if I have worried you.”

“It is surely only fair recompense for how much I have worried you, of late,” Enjolras assured him, smiling sadly, “Sleep, please. Do not worry yourself any more of this until the daylight, at the very least.”

Combeferre nodded, standing, “I will try.”

Only when Enjolras had seen Combeferre retire to his bedroom did he return to his own, lingering in the study for a while to glance over the half-composed letters. He wondered, when the fighting was done, how many of these letters would find their way into the hands of grieving parents, and how many would be rendered unnecessary, the children of the intended recipients fortunate enough to survive. He ran his fingers over the pages, swallowing the lump that formed in his throat as he traced his fingertips over his friends' names, and then turned and made his way back to bed, his chest aching with worry.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Morning found Enjolras sitting alone on his bed, the letter from his mother resting in his lap. In spite of what he had told Combeferre, he had not slept, though it had not been for want of trying. He had been unable to rest, staring up at the ceiling of his room as the dawn crawled in outside and thinking of all that was to soon come. He glanced down at the letter, fingering the edge of the envelope nervously, and considered casting it into the fire. Letters from his family only proved to bring more discord into his life. And yet, even as he told himself it would be better not to acknowledge it, he found himself working his fingernails under the flap of the envelope to open it.

 

 _My dearest Marie,_ it read, in his mother's familiar handwriting,

 

_I write to you now so full of sorrow, for it feels to me as if my heart has ceased to beat. With great sadness I must inform you that your father left this world but a morning before I am writing to you now, taken in the early hours. He was sleeping, and the doctor assures me it was without much pain, but my heart is none the lighter for it. I know that before his death you and he were at odds, but I beseech you now to come home for the funeral, if not to pay respects to him then for the love your bear me as your mother. Nothing would comfort me more in this dark time than to have my only child in my arms again. I will hope and pray to hear from you soon._

 

_With all the love in my heart,_

 

_Your affectionate mother._

  
Enjolras set the letter down slowly. For a moment he felt completely numb. He should hate him, he thought. He should feel naught but indifference about his passing, after all that had happened. But there were tears forming in his eyes against all reason, and memories flooding his head, determined that he should feel loss for the man who had sent him away.

He recalled his father walking him around the gardens on a warm day when he was small, lifting him up so that he could see the fish in the pond. He could almost feel the sunlight on his skin, the cool water beneath his hands, see the flashes of orange and gold and silver fish.

Enjolras remembered once when he had caught a terrible fever as a child; he had been confined to his bed, the physician, for all his efforts, worried that he would not survive it. His father had sat at his bedside for a whole day and night. He had been stern-faced and stoic, but Enjolras could recall him placing a kiss on his forehead as he lay there shivering, remembered feeling him sweep his golden curls away from his face with a gentle hand.

_Had I been born a boy by body as well as soul, he might have loved me dearly._

He closed his eyes, scrunching up the letter in his fist, and let himself weep.

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Particularly long chapter here to make up for the delay.
> 
> Also, warning for misgendering in this chapter.

“Are you quite certain about this?” Combeferre asked three days later, as Enjolras stood with his back to him, carefully inspecting his reflection in the mirror. The dress he had found was an old thing, but it was respectable enough, and would serve it's purpose just fine; black, as was appropriate, and trimmed with fine lace. He had burnt all of his gowns when he found his own lodgings in Paris, and the one he wore now was secondhand, purchased from a young widow who had remarried and was selling her mourning clothes. As it was, it did not fit him quite as well; it was smaller than he'd anticipated, and tight around his bust in a way that reminded him of his bindings but did nothing to conceal his chest. That alone made him uneasy. His figure looked wrong to him; too shapely, too soft.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, in answer to Combeferre's question, “Two days will surely not kill me.”

Combeferre tactfully did not respond to that, but in the mirror Enjolras saw him purse his lips thoughtfully.

“I will likely never see her again,” Enjolras pointed out, inhaling sharply as Combeferre pulled the back of the dress together and began to close it up.

“It was your choice to wear it.” Combeferre commented, noticing him squirm in discomfort.

“I could hardly attend my father's funeral in trousers and a waistcoat,” Enjolras said quietly, “I would if I could. My mother is grieving and alone. A day or two in this monstrous thing to make her feel better is a sacrifice that I am willing to make. If I can give up my life for the republic but I am not willing to give up my pride for a day for my own mother, what sort of person am I?”

“At least you did not insist upon wearing stays, I suppose...it would have been unwise, with your health as it is.”

“You think I would make the conscious decision to wear one of those deathtraps again?” Enjolras scoffed, “I am not that much of a martyr.”

He saw Combeferre smirk slightly from the mirror, shaking his head, “There,” he said, stepping back. Enjolras thanked him, quickly twisting his hair up into a more feminine fashion than he usually cared to and pinning it in place with a comb. It was a modest look, and quite unfashionable, but he refused to go to the lengths of acquiring a bonnet for the sake of style. A childhood stuffed into them had made the idea quite abhorrent.

“Do I look respectable?” he asked, turning to face Combeferre.

His friend frowned, looking him up and down, “You do not look like yourself.” was the answer he received.

“I do not feel like myself, either,” Enjolras admitted. He nervously brought his hand up to touch the locket around his neck. There was a strange sense of reassurance in the small portrait it held inside.

“It is not for long.” he said, more to remind himself than Combeferre, “I will manage. Skirts are not so awful.”

“If you are quite sure.”

“As sure as I can be on the matter.” Enjolras smiled sadly, embracing him tightly, “Take notes from the meeting for me,” he pleaded, “I should hate to miss any new developments that we make.”

“As though I would do otherwise. I would not like to imagine the wrath I might face to be without notes when you return.” Combeferre jested, laying a hand on his shoulder as they broke apart, “Travel well, my friend. Are you certain you will not have me accompany you? If your condition were to worsen...”

“Then my mother would send for a skilled physician and I would swear him to confidentiality.” Enjolras said simply, “Do not fear for me. These two days, I am sure, will not be my last. If I brought you along with me she would only expect a marriage proposal before I left, and neither of us wish for that situation.” he laughed, lifting up his trunk and carrying it to the door, where the coach driver was waiting for him.

Enjolras opened his mouth to protest when the driver offered to take his trunk for him, before catching himself. For these few days he would be seen as a woman. He frowned.

“Very well.” he said, giving up the trunk to the driver with some reluctance. He shivered in the cold morning air, pulling his shawl tighter around himself and turning to Combeferre once more, “Wish me well. Limoges is a whole day's travel away.”

“Be safe,” Combeferre said, helping him up into the coach, “And do not overexert yourself.”

“When have I ever?” Enjolras joked, calling out for the driver to leave and leaning out of the window to wave as they pulled off.

 

* * *

 

“Mademoiselle? We have arrived.”

Enjolras jerked awake, his head feeling groggy. He recalled growing bored of the countryside about two hours into the journey and attempting to read to pass the time, but even with such a passion for revolution as his own, a detailed and long-winded account of the events at the Bastille could only hold someone's attention for so long. He must have drifted off to sleep at some point. The book was still open upon his lap.

“Mademoiselle?”

It took him a moment to realise that the coach driver was addressing him. He rubbed his eyes, closing the book.

“Thank you, monsieur,” he mumbled sleepily, sitting up and arching his back. It was dark out, his family home lit ominously by lanterns, shadows licking the walls. By daylight it was usually a most impressive building, all beautiful marble arches and stone staircases, with tall windows from which the faint glow of candlelight could now be detected. In the dark it looked more imposing than anything.

A black wreath was hung upon the door, the only indication of death lingering over the estate. The house seemed bigger than when he had last laid eyes upon it, and Enjolras wondered briefly if it were anything to do with the fact it would be emptier than when he had last been there. He pushed the thought aside and stood, stumbling on the carriage steps and catching himself against the door.

“Do you need any assistance, mademoiselle?” the coach driver said, offering him his hand.

“I am fine.” Enjolras insisted, face red as he smoothed out his dress; he had stepped on the hem. It seemed that he had quite forgotten how to walk in women's attire. He climbed down from the steps, book tucked under his arm, trying to find his composure again. The coach driver mercifully did not choose to comment.

Enjolras drew in a deep breath, let himself soak in the feeling of being home, and tried to muster some love for the place.

When he had left here four years ago he had yearned to return, begging and pleading in letters to his mother, but now, when he was welcome here once more, it was a strange and unfamiliar place. It had been easy to love the house when he had been small, when he hadn't known of the suffering of the working class and all he had wanted to do was run barefoot in the gardens. Now the family estate was nothing to him but a tasteless show of status; all of it's charm had faded. 

The countryside was a stranger to him, too; the evening air smelled too clean, blew too fresh against his cheeks, and the night was too quiet. When he had first moved to Paris his nights had been restless. He would lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling in the small hours listening to the drunks dragging themselves home along the dark streets and the coaches rattling along the cobbles. His nights were restless now, too, but for troubled thoughts and not the sounds of the city. Now the sounds of Paris in the darkness lulled him to sleep more often than not, the same way he had come to be used to the sound of Grantaire breathing beside him.

He thanked the coach driver as he retrieved his trunk, pressing an extra few sous into his hand, and then hitched up the bottom of his dress and ascended the stairs towards the door.

It was the housekeeper who answered, hair tucked into a nightcap, a gaslight in hand; Madame Lisette had been part of his family's household for as long as Enjolras could remember. She had always been fond of him, cleaning up after him as a child and finding ways to entertain him when his parents were too busy.

When she saw him she startled, suddenly much more awake, “Mademoiselle!” she cried, practically pulling Enjolras into the house, “We did not expect you!”

“I was invited.” Enjolras said, as Lisette fussed over him, trying to neaten up his hair.

“Your mother will be so happy to see you, now of all times.” she smiled, “I hope you are well?”

_Oh, if you knew the half of it..._

“Quite.”

“Come, you must be absolutely exhausted.”

“A little.” Enjolras agreed, following her through to the drawing room.

“I will have your old room made up for you, and the fire lit in the hearth,” she told him, “Madame Enjolras!” she called, “Madame, your daughter is here!”

“Marie?” At the sound of his mother's voice, he froze, his feet seeming to turn to stone in the hallway. He had spent the last three days preparing himself to see her, yet now that he was here his courage seemed to have fled; he was a child again, rosy-cheeked with scuffed knees, waiting to be scolded for his mischief.

She appeared in the doorway, a silhouette in black crepe from head to toe. She seemed weaker than he could remember her, and her golden hair had turned nearly completely silver in his four year absence, but she still cut a proud figure, even now.

“Oh, Marie,” she whispered, covering her mouth one hand, “My girl, my sweet girl,” for a moment she stood there, staring at him as if she expected him to disappear like smoke, and then she rushed to him as quickly as her frailty would allow, dress sweeping across the floor.

She cupped his face gently, eyes wide, “I cannot believe that you are here. Perhaps I am dreaming.”

“I'm here, mother,” Enjolras confirmed.

“My dear,” she smiled, creases forming at the corners of her eyes, “You are more beautiful than ever! Though you are pale – it is like being visited by a ghost.” she added, inspecting him, “Are you quite well?”

“Perfectly,” Enjolras lied, pulling away from her hands to kiss her cheeks in greeting, “It is good to see you.”

“I trust you had a safe journey?”

“Yes. I slept some of the way,” Enjolras said, “But I am still quite tired, and I should like to bathe, before tomorrow.”

“Of course.” His mother said, still fussing over him, “I'll have a bath drawn up for you. I cannot believe you are here,” she said, “It has been so long since you have responded to my letters. I feared you had forsaken the family for good.”

Enjolras ignored this statement, instead embracing her, “Are you well?” he whispered.

“As well as can be expected.”

Enjolras nodded, “I...am sorry I could not be here before he...I...was busy.”

His mother said nothing to that, instead offering him a small smile and taking his hand, “Come,” she urged, “Let us have a late supper.”

Supper was a mercifully quiet affair, with very little said between them over soup and bread. Enjolras was grateful for it. The sad truth was that he did not know what to say to her; it had been so long and so much had changed for him that he dared not open his mouth, fearful that he might let spill something he ought not to. His friends. His classes. His politics. Something that would either incriminate him or offend her, no doubt.

Once finished he excused himself from the table, muttering a quiet 'goodnight' and kissing her cheek before escaping to his room. The silence had been too tense for him to stomach.

The moment he was alone he shed his dress, along with the camisole beneath it, until he was completely naked save for the locket around his neck. The bath that had been drawn up for him steamed away by the fire, warm and inviting. Mere hours back in his family home and he already felt ill at ease, weighed down by lace and the mantle of 'daughter' that sat heavy upon his shoulders.

 _Her 'sweet girl'_ , he thought, feeling the bile rise in his throat as he sunk into the bath.

He had learned to ignore it in her letters, but hearing it in her own voice once again had opened up old wounds.

_I will never be her daughter. I have never been her daughter._

As he lay back in the tub, glaring at the dress pooled upon the floor, he wondered if it had been an unwise decision to come here. Everything within these walls was an echo of a life he had meant to leave behind for good. It looked as though his bedroom had remained untouched since he was last there; the same four-poster bed, with it's delicate white curtains, the same dresser by the window, his hairbrush and hand-mirror laid out neatly beside each other.

He closed his eyes, listening to the fire. He found himself imagining he was back in Paris, in the lodgings he shared with Combeferre, where he was safe to be himself. In his more private fantasies, the ones he kept guarded close to his heart, Grantaire was there, too. A soft sigh passed his lips as he trailed one hand down his front to touch himself, letting his thoughts drift in a way he did not usually allow them to. He imagined Grantaire was with him now, the two of them sharing the bath water as they had done a few times in the past. It was Grantaire's hands on him, Grantaire's fingers coaxing short, sharp breaths from him, Grantaire pressed close against him. It did not compare to the real thing; the real Grantaire had a far more dexterous touch - an artists hands. Still, Enjolras brought himself to completion quickly and with a flush of shame, thinking of Grantaire's lips against his skin as pleasure rushed through him. 

It brought him crashing back to reality when he opened his eyes and found that he was alone, still in his old room, staring at the wallpaper.

Embarrassed by his own actions he climbed from the bath and dried himself, quickly changing into his nightshirt and crawling beneath the covers.

He lay there for a while in thoughtful silence, turning the locket over in his hand and wondering what Grantaire would be doing at this hour. Sleeping would be a good bet, he thought, but it was all too easy to let his fears run away with him, conjuring images of him drinking himself to death in the gutter somewhere, bottle of absinthe in hand. He would have given anything to have him there beside him in bed.

He pressed a tender kiss against the cool metal of the locket as though he thought to be kissing Grantaire, and then leaned over to blow out the candle on the nightstand, swallowing the room in darkness but for the fire in the hearth.

 

* * *

 

 _It is too sunny a day for a funeral,_ Enjolras thought as they left the church following the service; he had always thought that funerals should only ever be conducted under grey skies and a shroud of rain, mourners huddled together against the cold. Instead the weather was unseasonable, and the gardens in full bloom. The heat was near unbearable, made all the more stifling by the heavy fabric of his dress, and Enjolras had never been more relieved that he had chosen to forgo stays.

He had not slept well the night before. He had woken two hours after he went to bed with terrible nausea and had found no respite until the sky was beginning to lighten outside. As a result he felt half-deceased already; he would have laughed at the idea were it not so horribly morbid.

There were heavy shadows beneath his eyes, and the hollows of his cheeks seemed more pronounced, something he could not blame on sleeplessness alone. He had not seemed to lose any weight yet, but he looked sallow and sickly. It seemed his illness was starting to eat away at him.

It occurred to him rather suddenly that he had never before been to a funeral. His only brush with mortality as a child had been the death of his grandfather, a surly man that Enjolras had scarcely ever met, and who's funeral he had not been permitted to attend, apparently too young to understand death. Now, death was an intimate bedfellow to him.

It also occurred to him just as jarringly that he would likely never attend another funeral after this one. He would surely be dead before he had to stand at the graveside of any of his friends; a small blessing.

The burial itself was a grim affair, and the blinding sunshine seemed to serve only to make it worse. He stood beside his mother quietly the whole time, holding her arm.

He chanced to look at her as the family mausoleum was sealed, but her face was obscured behind a dark veil, and he could not see what emotions crossed her features.

When it was done the guests began to file back towards the house in a sombre procession, Enjolras and his mother among them. Once at the house he claimed a corner of the drawing room to himself, acting against his better judgement and taking a glass of wine when it was offered to him. He would take whatever he could to ease his discomfort, though he'd always thought wine too bitter for his palate, and had never understood Grantaire's affinity for it.

“You do not have to like the taste of it,” Grantaire had told him once, laughing into Enjolras' curls, “It is it's effects that are its most redeeming qualities.”

Enjolras was now sure to put Grantaire's words to the test, draining his glass in one go and wishing that the day would come to an end swiftly and painlessly. Seeing his father before the burial had made the matter all too real. His skin had been pale, almost greying, and when Enjolras had looked at him he had felt nothing. The dead man had been a shell, devoid of all the qualities that had made him the man that Enjolras had known, feared, and yet still sought the approval of. He wondered if that was how he would look too when death finally took him; robbed of all the fervour for which he knew he was recognised.

Seeing death had made the obscure concept into something real and tangible, and now Enjolras wished to forget it.

It was only later in the evening, with the wine swimming in his system, that it occurred to him that nobody had spoken to him all day; they would kiss his mother's cheek and murmur their condolences, but none of them dared even meet Enjolras' gaze.

He wondered how much they had heard about him and the reason he had been sent away to Paris, and if that was the cause.

He did not care, whatever the reason. In fact, he rather preferred it that they paid him no heed.

He loathed that he came from this; he could not avoid that his roots ran deep in Southern soil. It was nobility of spirit that Enjolras valued, not nobility of name. Those in his family's social circle boasted vast wealth and grand estates, yet not one among them could buy a clear conscience. If Enjolras had thought he might live long enough to inherit he would have seen his family's wealth honourably distributed; not an act of charity, but his civic duty as a priest to the Republic.

“Mademoiselle?”

Enjolras glanced up from his empty wine glass to see that a young man of an age with him had dared approach him; he looked fearful - and rightly so, Enjolras thought - but he had to admire his bravery. In another life the man might have made a worthy revolutionary.

“Yes?” Enjolras said.

“I am very sorry for your loss, Mademoiselle. Your father was a good man.”

Enjolras wanted to laugh, but instead gave a tight smile, “Thank you, Monsieur.”

The man smiled back, removed his top hat, and then reached to lift Enjolras' hand to his lips. Enjolras scowled, drawing it back as though he had made to bite it, not kiss it, his face as hard as stone. The young man blanched at the look, clearly thinking better of his endeavour, and quickly retreated to the rest of the funeral party like a kicked puppy.

“Everyone here would say you should have been nicer to the boy.”

Enjolras sighed as his mother appeared at his side, eyebrows raised curiously. She had now pulled back her veil.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. His father owns a vineyard.” said told him.

“How good that must be for his father.” Enjolras said, not even trying to hide his boredom; he could guess where the conversation was going, and the wine had made his tongue as loose as it was sharp.

“He has one older brother,” His mother continued, “But he's a sickly boy. Always has been. He won't survive to inherit, most people believe. It'll be his younger brother - the boy who spoke to you today - who ends up with the family estate. Bourgeois to the core, of course, but after the revolution one cannot be too picky.”

“How wonderful.”

“Hm. That one, over there,” she pointed to a scrawny looking young man stood with an elderly woman, “He's a Baron's son. Strange boy. Wealth and a good name but whispers through the grapevine say he's been seen meddling with his own sister. His parents deny it, of course."

Enjolras wrinkled his nose, “Mother---”

“And him,” she gestured to a short, portly gentleman who boasted a rather fine moustache, “A military officer. He fought at Waterloo. Since then the only thing he seems to have battled is a taste for expensive wine and gambling. He's old, yes, but he's wealthy and lonely. An older man is a good match - they die sooner, and you have to put up with less advances. They're too tired for it half the time."

“Mother, why are you telling me this?”

“We must think to the family, and to your future.” she said, ushering him out of the doors towards the gardens.

“Mother, I...” Enjolras stopped, his mother overtaking him a few paces before she noticed and came to a halt herself.

She looked at him questioningly, “Marie?”

“I cannot marry.” he said.

Her features grew stern, but there was sympathy there too, and she shook her head sadly as she reached to take his hand, “My sweet---”

“No, mother, you do not understand---” Enjolras stepped back, “I cannot---I am already married.” the words left his lips before he could even think twice.

 _Damn the wine_ , he thought.

At this, his mother's eyes grew wide, “Already married?”

“Yes,” Enjolras swallowed hard; the words were out there now, there was naught he could do but go with them, “Newly. I am sorry. I had hoped to tell you under better circumstances.”

The lie came easily enough, he thought. It was, in truth, perhaps less of a lie and more a matter of perspective. There were no marriage papers between he and Grantaire, there had been no ceremony, no grand wedding reception with champagne and dancing, but as he had said to Grantaire himself, they were wed in all the ways that mattered.

“That was a swift arrangement.” his mother mused, casting him a sidelong glance, “Are you with child?”

For a moment Enjolras found himself frozen with panic, those strange feelings of loss coming back all at once. He folded his hands across his stomach as casually as possible, shaking his head.

“No, no,” he said quickly, “It is not like that. We simply met and courted and wed, as lovers do.”

“Then why is your husband not in attendance with you now?” she sounded scandalised, “It is improper for him to make a wife of my daughter without meeting me.”

“I did not think it appropriate to turn up with a man you had never met on my arm, touting him as my husband before everyone we know.” Enjolras reasoned, “I had thought to introduce you more privately.”

His mother gave a small sniff, “Who is he, then?”

“Monsieur Grantaire,” Enjolras said, as his mother took his arm and began to walk again, leaning in against him to listen intently. Loathsome of the family estate though he was, he had to confess the gardens were beautiful - though perhaps the wine helped.

“I have not heard of his family. Have you married from the gutter, my dear child?”

“No. His family is from Auvergne. They are perhaps not as well renowned as you should like,” he offered generously, “But they have some land to their name, and are reputable.” again, it was not an untruth; Grantaire had often told him of his father. He was a brute by all accounts, and had terrorised Grantaire's mother, but he had made a name for himself managing the finances of a wealthy family, and had done fairly well from it. Had Grantaire had a head for sums as he father wanted him to he would have stood to gain a respectable inheritance.

“I did not understand the numbers,” Grantaire had told him as they lay together one night, playing with Enjolras' hair, “They seemed to blur together upon the pages. I would draw instead, and receive a beating for it.”

“That is awful.”

“It is as it is. When he grew sick of me he sent me away to apprentice for an artist in Paris, less out of kindness and more to remove me from his sights. We are both exiles, Enjolras. I was a useless apprentice; I drew only as and when I felt like it, I could not commit to meeting deadlines and preferred to spend my money on wine rather than paints. I gave up on what few dreams I had, and my father gave up on me.”

As a result of this exile, Grantaire had scarcely a sous to his name; his family sent him a paltry allowance to live off, more out of obligation than fondness.

His mother did not need to know that.

“Hm.” she frowned, “I suppose you could have married worse, then. What does he do?”

“He is an artist,” Enjolras said, and as they walked together he found himself passionately extolling all of Grantaire's virtues and talents.

“He fences superbly, though he is modest. I have seen him a few times.” he told her.

He had tried to teach Enjolras how to fence once, the two of them armed with sticks in the park one summer afternoon. It had gone well, but it had quickly become apparent that for them the sport was not one for public places; all of that exertion and building of tension had nearly resulted in Enjolras pushing him up against the nearest tree. They had left the park red-faced, panting, and urgent to return to Grantaire's rooms.

“He boxes, too, from time to time.”

“Boxing.” she scoffed, “A rough sport. Is he good to you, at least?”

“I would not have married him were he not.” Enjolras shrugged.

“Good. Virile?”

“Mother!” Enjolras felt his face redden.

“I simply wish to know if I will be getting grandchildren,” she said, “If I'm to let some artist from Auvergne marry my only daughter I would at least like that.”

“Virile enough for that, I'm sure.” Enjolras muttered. That part was certainly not an untruth. He looked down at his hands, still pressed against his stomach.

“Hm. Then that's something, I suppose.” She said, stopping rather abruptly to smell some flowers, “I do love the summer.” she said absent-mindedly, “You know, you would not believe the lengths some go to to further their name. Your dear father was barely cold in his bed before I had no less than three marriage proposals from young men wanting to sink their claws into his fortune, with no respect for proper mourning etiquette.” she frowned, glancing at Enjolras, “I turned them all down of course, but now that you are here they'll be circling you like vultures before long, I'm sure. As our only child you will inevitably inherit all of this, and with the added boon of your beauty, you'll be awash with suitors in no time. A man would marry a horse in a dress if it promised him wealth. But you? You are a summer flower; they shall want to pick you for more than your money, but not much else.”

Enjolras looked down at the path as they started walking again, furrowing his brow, “What is your point?” he said quietly.

“The point is that perhaps you were right to marry your artist.” she muttered, “I have only ever wanted the best for you. I hope you know that. From the moment they placed you in my arms, wailing and red faced as you were, you were the most precious thing in my life.” she stopped then, turning to him. Enjolras looked up to meet her gaze.

“I wanted to find you a husband with a good name, a fat purse, and a large heart. You deserve no less. But most of our circle will be swarming around you like rats for nothing more than our family name. They'd eat you alive for a single sous...” she smiled sadly, lifting one hand to Enjolras' cheek, “If this man you've married treats you well, then I suppose I can ask nothing more of him. A more affluent name would have been nice, given,” she said, “But your father is not here to gnaw my ear off with his complaints about it, and I _would_ like to see those wretched grave-robbers' faces when they learn every last sous will go to a painter when I'm dead.”

Enjolras stared at her, for a moment too stunned to respond. In all the years he had known his mother he had never heard her talk in such a way. He had always known she had strength, of course; she had survived his father for years and battled the grief of three dead sons and countless miscarriages. She was a fearsome woman, that much he had never doubted, but to hear her speak with such contempt for the upper class took him entirely by surprise.

“Whatever is the matter, child? Do you find it hard to believe your old mother is tired of these parlour games?” she gave a tut, kissing his forehead and making her way over to a bench, taking a seat, “Do you think your unruly nature comes from nowhere? I have always behaved myself for the sake of our family – for you - but I have nothing left to watch myself for now. Your father is dead and you are married off.”

Enjolras blinked once, finally finding his voice again, “Forgive me. I did not expect...”

“Of course you didn't. But if you rattle an old bird's cage she'll still squawk.” she said, patting the spot beside her, “Sit with me and enjoy the evening air.”

Enjolras did as she said, staring out over the finely kept gardens; the sun was sinking out of sight, streaking the sky with marvelous hues of orange and pink. Grantaire would have liked to paint it, he imagined. He closed his eyes, listening to the peaceful bubbling of the nearby fountain, breathing in the smell of the flowers, and found some of that previously lost affection for the place seep back into him.

It was carefully cultivated to be this peaceful, of course; the wealthy owned the countryside, building their lives far from the beggars and prostitutes and starving children so that their conscience needn't be stirred, but it was beautiful nevertheless. Had he been a man of lesser principals he might have wed Grantaire for true and brought him to the family estate. But he was not, and even if he was, he did not think he could have handled a life in skirts. What use was there in living in luxury if he was living a lie?

“Marie?”

His mother's voice brought him out of his thoughts.

“Yes, mother?”

She took his hand, squeezing it lightly, “I want you to know that I love you most dearly. Your father did too, though he had a poor way of showing it.”

“I know, mama..."

“You would tell me, would you not, if something were troubling you?” her words made Enjolras' heart grow heavy. He swallowed the lump in his throat, jagged and hard, and nodded.

“Of course.”

“I have heard so many rumours about unrest in Paris.” she said, laying her head against his shoulder, “Tell me please that it is not true.”

“It is not true, mother.”

“Good.” she sighed, closing her eyes, “I will miss you terribly when you return to that cesspool. Will you not consider staying?”

“I'm sorry, mother,” Enjolras felt his mouth go dry, “But I have prior engagements in Paris.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LOOK! I actually DID THE THING. This chapter may as well just be called 'marital disputes and Enjolras feeling like a very bad person'.  
> Quick note - I will be shuffling the canon-era timeline around a little bit; not changing the order of any events really, just bringing some of them closer together; ie. moving the Barriere Du Maine incident closer to the actual rebellion to keep it nice and snug. This is fanfiction, afterall.

It was late when he arrived back in Paris the next night, exhausted from travel; he had not been able to sleep on the return journey, feeling nauseous the entire way.

The last day in Limoges had been blessedly uneventful, and he had spent the best part of it sorting through his father's belongings. With the library no longer forbidden to him Enjolras had taken great joy in surveying his father's collection of literature, adding a hefty weight to his trunk. Though the late M. Enjolras had been no Republican, he had owned many books of curious political philosophy, several of which Enjolras now claimed for his own. In the chest in his father's study he had found his gun, too; an ornate flintlock with gold and ivory detailing that he could never recall his father using for anything more than show. Enjolras had taken it; with him it would see a more meaningful use.

When the coach pulled up outside his and Combeferre's lodgings he was surprised to see the front door already open, a light flickering in the hallway. He struggled out of the coach, only to be accosted at the door by Courfeyrac, wild-eyed despite the hour.

He was less finely dressed than usual, as though he had put himself together in a hurry, and his face was flushed, as though he had come running from his own lodgings. _Something has happened_ , Enjolras realised with a sudden feeling of dread.

“General Lamarque is sick,” Courfeyrac said breathlessly, embracing Enjolras tightly, “Word is that he hasn't long for the world.”

“Truly?” Enjolras said, glancing over Courfeyrac's shoulder at Combeferre, who had appeared in the doorway. His had his arms folded across his chest and thoughtfulness etched into his features. He didn't seem nearly as energised by the news as Courfeyrac did.

He gave a solemn nod, “Apparently so.”

For a brief moment, Enjolras felt a pang of sadness. Lamarque was a good man; a voice for the people of Paris, a champion for the wretched and the downtrodden, and in that respect, a rare breed. Just as soon as it came, the sadness passed, replaced with a surge of excitement as it dawned upon him what the news could mean for their plans.

He looked to Courfeyrac again, suddenly just as alert, “If he dies---”

“When.” Courfeyrac corrected, “Though not to wish a man so soon into his grave.”

“---When he dies...this could be what we need,” he said, “The powder keg to a revolution.”

“The people love Lamarque,” Courfeyrac agreed, “This may encourage them to come flocking to our cause. Without the People's Man, what becomes of the people? Reform is the only option, they must see that! Paris is on a knifepoint. It must be revolution or death, and it is for the people to decide for themselves.”

“Liberty, equality and fraternity or death.” Enjolras said, trembling with anticipation. “Put the word around,” he said, “Double the efforts with the flyers, take to the streets, do whatever you can. I will write letters to the other barricades. This is the tipping point that we have been waiting for.”

Courfeyrac nodded, patting his shoulder, “We've called an emergency meeting for tomorrow morning. I will see you then.”

With that he was gone, leaving Enjolras and Combeferre alone.

“Do you truly think us ready for what lies ahead?” Combeferre asked quietly as Enjolras stepped into the house, gracelessly hitching up the bottom of his dress to avoid a repeat of the incident in the coach.

“No. I do not think it is at all possible to be ready. It will happen when it is intended to happen, and if that is now, then we must meet it head on.” Enjolras said, dumping his trunk in the hallway and making his way to the study.

“Enjolras. Look at me.”

He sighed, turning to face Combeferre.

His friend's face was full of concern, “You are looking paler than you were just two days ago.” he said.

“The candlelight makes it look worse than it is,” Enjolras argued, turning his head away as he pulled the comb from his hair, letting it fall loose around his shoulder, “It pronounces the shadows.”

“Shadows that were not there before.” Combeferre reasoned, “How was your health, during your trip? I pray, please be honest with me.”

Enjolras hesitated, “I had the usual pains and nausea."

“The whole trip?"

“Mostly, yes.”

Combeferre sighed, “You are deteriorating...”

“We knew that this would happen, though,” Enjolras said, “Why are you surprised? As long as I outlive Lamarque and then long enough for our plans to come to fruition---”

“Enjolras, do you even hear yourself talk?” Combeferre's voice was strained, and a look of horror had come over him. Enjolras froze.

“You are my dearest friend - you and Courfeyrac both.” Combeferre said, “You are dying, Enjolras. Even if we should all come out of this revolution alive and triumphant, your death will be inescapable." he said, "And that pains me greatly."

Enjolras felt shame wash over him all at once, a wave so strong it seemed as though it might sweep him off his feet. He had been so caught up in his plans that he had not yet stopped to think about what would become of his friends if they came out of the battle unscathed only for him to die anyway. He had always just imagined them all moving past his loss with great strength; with a new Republic to attend to they would surely have far more pressing matters than mourning for him. The knot of guilt in his stomach tightened. What a fool he was for thinking such things.

He took his friend's hand, eyes downcast, “I am sorry,” he said, “It...hadn't occurred to me to think about how you were taking this.”

“You have had much to worry about.” Combeferre said.

“It still does not excuse it.” Enjolras insisted, squeezing his hand.

Combeferre said nothing more, instead turning to leave, freeing his hand from Enjolras', “I will take your things to your room,” he said, “You should rest. Eat something, and then sleep.”

He left Enjolras there in the study, feeling suddenly very helpless, daunted by all that he had set out to do. He thought of his friends, of his mother, of Grantaire, and his heart ached terribly. But then he thought of Lamarque, sick and dying in his bed, and of the people of Paris, soon to be left without a voice.

_What is my own pain against the pain of a nation?_

He went to bed restless that night, despite feeling drained from his travels. He had expected to feel a sense of closure having made peace with his mother, but instead it had only left a lingering sadness in his chest. He thought back to his mother's words, still touched that she had given him her blessing to marry as he saw fit, and thought the guilt of lying to her might strike him dead. She would be wearing black for the rest of her days, it seemed.

It was on this thought that he put out the light and tried to sleep.

 

* * *

 

The next morning was a frantic affair; he rose with the sun, he and Combeferre making their way to the Musain at an ungodly early hour. The streets were quiet even for the time, and to Enjolras it seemed as though Paris was already in mourning for Lamarque. The news would have spread fast that he had been taken ill, and by now it would have been common knowledge.

The café was bustling when they arrived, people running from room to room, shouting and shoving. Courfeyrac was already there, counting out the mismatched guns that had been laid out on the table. Feuilly was passing out flyers to some of the street gamin that had crowded into the café, handing each of them a coin to distribute them among the people, and Jean Prouvaire was in the corner of the room sewing slogans from the first republic onto flags.

 _It is really happening,_ Enjolras thought with a thrill of both fear and excitement.

There was no sign of Grantaire yet, but that was to be expected; he rarely showed his face to the outside world before noon, and Enjolras had very little time to concern himself with his absence. There was far too much to do. _He will probably make an appearance later,_ he told himself.

“How do things look?” he asked Courfeyrac, joining him by the table.

“Good,” his friend said, “Hearing of Lamarque has brought people flooding to our cause, workmen and students alike. We are low on guns and ammunition for our numbers, but we still have time.”

“And the barricades?”

“We've had it confirmed that two are to go up here and here,” Courfeyrac pointed on the map, “And likely one here, too - the artisans from Cafe Richefeu, at Barriere Du Maine.”

“Excellent.” Enjolras patted his shoulder, eyes following the winding streets depicted on the map, “May I see an inventory of exactly how many guns we have?”

Courfeyrac passed him the papers, catching him by the sleeve before he could wander away with them, “Enjolras,” his voice was quiet, meant only for the two of them.

“I know that you are not well...” he hesitated, “Are you certain your health will allow for this?”

Enjolras stiffened. He broke eye contact, swallowing hard.

“We will surely find out.” was all he could say, before pulling free from his friend's grip and making his way to a chair to read the inventory. He did not chance to look back and see Courfeyrac's expression.

The day wound on, the workload relentless. The sun crept higher into the sky and then began to sink again, and Enjolras scarcely noticed. It wasn't until more candles were lit to compensate for the lack of natural light that Enjolras realised how late it had gotten, and that the seat between Joly and Bossuet at the back of the room was still empty.

“Where is Grantaire?” he asked Joly, trying to direct his tone into one of disdain, “Has he gone and drunk himself into a stupor in a gutter somewhere?”

“We don't know,” Bossuet said, pouring himself and Joly another cup of wine, “We called on him this morning on our way here, but he would not answer the door.”

That set a strange knot in Enjolras' gut.

“Oh.” he said, trying not to let the worry show on his face.

Instead he nodded, “I am sure he believes he has better things to do than be here.” he muttered, turning to go back to his work.

Despite all that needed doing, Enjolras could not shake off his concern for Grantaire. _He had said he would still be on the barricades. He had said he would still attend our meetings._

When his friends finally began to trickle out of the café one by one, Enjolras remained behind; he would go to Grantaire's lodgings as he had done so many times before, but not until he had spoken with Courfeyrac and Combeferre. There was a matter he needed to settle first.

“May I speak with you both, before you retire?” he asked, when it was just him and his two closest friends left in the café.

Combeferre nodded from where he knelt on the floor, hiding the weaponry; they had been stashing their ammunition beneath the floorboards of the café along with their flyers, so as to avoid arrest if anyone should be found with a gun.

“It is not a pleasant topic.” Enjolras admitted, “But it needs to be addressed.”

“What is it?” Courfeyrac said cautiously.

“What is to be done should I die before all of this comes to it's conclusion.”

“That won't happen.” Courfeyrac answered immediately.

“But if it does.” Enjolras said, “Please do not let my body be examined. Claim I died of something contagious, so that I am buried without inspection. Even in death I...I could not take the shame of it.” he looked down, “It could be detrimental to our cause. If I was exposed, I somehow doubt many would take arms; they would think me a liar and a mad woman."

Combeferre stepped forwards, touching his arm lightly, “In such an event I will see to it that your wishes are respected.” he vowed, “Would you have your mother informed?”

“Yes. But quietly; a tactfully worded letter, or a visit, if there is time for it.”

“Very well.”

“This won't happen, though.” Courfeyrac argued still, “Enjolras will live. Of course he will live.”

Enjolras forced himself to crack a small smile at his optimism, not wishing to voice his doubts, “I am sure you are correct.” he said, pulling on his coat, “Now If you excuse me, I have business to attend to.”

“I do not know why he didn't come to the meeting.” Combeferre said, idly turning back to some of the papers laid out on the table.

Enjolras felt his cheeks redden.

“Pardon?”

“Do not take us for fools, my friend. We know what you mean, and will remain impartial. Though I must remind you of the value of discretion.”

“I know the value of discretion.” Enjolras said hotly, face red, “I know better than anyone.”

 

* * *

 

It was eerily quiet when he left the café, as though the whole of Paris was waiting for the news that would plunge it into chaos. The night was still, and everywhere he walked doors and shutters had been bolted; people were aware of the unrest, having seen the students and workers coming and going from the Musain, and it seemed that many of them wanted to distance themselves from the fighting to come. That did not bode well, but it did not dishearten Enjolras; he was certain that Lamarque's impending death would be the push that was needed to encourage the people to rise.

When he arrived at Grantaire's lodgings he found the door ajar; it was not unusual, as Grantaire was often too intoxicated to close it securely. For a heartbeat Enjolras feared the worst - he had often scolded Grantaire for his lack of self-preservation, warning him that one day some people might take advantage of his forgetfulness and rob him and leave him for dead.

He pushed the door open, heart pounding.

“Grantaire?” he called, but it died in his throat and he stopped in his tracks, taking in the sight before him.

Grantaire was atrociously drunk - that much was clear from the clumsiness in his step and the lack of focus in his eyes. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, his cravat hanging untied around his neck. Enjolras could smell the gin on him from where he stood.

But what Enjolras was most taken aback by was the corset that was across the floor, it's laces carelessly pulled loose. There was a petticoat nearby, and a heap of fabric in the middle of the room that he assumed to be a dress. He followed this trail of items with his eyes until he saw her.

She was young and pretty, probably of an age with Enjolras. Fair skin, rosy cheeks, and, oh the bile rose in his throat, blonde curls that brushed her bare shoulders, golden as sunlight over a field of wheat. She clutched the thin bedsheets to her chest, evidently embarrassed by the interruption.

“What is this?” he said quietly, looking to Grantaire for an explanation. He did not need one. It was clear what he had stumbled upon, if not from the scene before him then from the guilt seeping out of Grantaire along with the stench of alcohol. It seemed he could not even meet Enjolras' gaze, his eyes cast downwards to the floor in shame.

“Who is she?” he demanded instead, voice rising. At this, Grantaire opened his mouth to speak, but no answer came to him. He glanced at the girl, and at that Enjolras felt a bitter laugh burst from his mouth.

“You do not even know her name?” he accused, “Then you do her as much of a disgrace as you do me. You do not deserve either of us in your bed.”

Enjolras turned to the girl, who was still scrambling to cover herself; she must not have been a prostitute, then - or if she was, she had the charm to still feign modesty.

“What is your name, Citizen?” he asked politely.

“Margot, monsieur.” she said, eyes flitting between Enjolras and Grantaire, as though trying to work out what had transpired between them to warrant Enjolras' outrage.

Enjolras looked back at Grantaire, trembling now though he did his most to look composed. “Really?” he said, “I have been gone from your life for mere days and you do this?” he wanted to stress disgust in his tone, but only hurt came through.

Grantaire said nothing, running a hand through his dark hair.

“Look at me!” Enjolras yelled, hands balling into fists, “Grantaire, look at me and answer me!”

“Fine!” Grantaire finally raised his eyes from the floor; they were brimming with emotion, “What do you wish me to say to you? That I am sorry? Shall I fall to my knees and beg for your forgiveness, like the wretch that I am?” he looked down again, defeated, “You are not my master, Enjolras, nor are we wed in any way but foolish fantasy. You left me. Am I to sit and weep over my love for you from now until your death? Should I wallow in loneliness until then? Would that please you?”

Enjolras had no answer for that. Nothing he could spit back, no counterargument for once in his life. He had ended his relationship with Grantaire, and thus, Grantaire was free to do as he wished with whomever he wished. He had no right to be so outraged, but he could not help but feel hurt. On technicality it was not a betrayal, but it stung just as much.

He shook his head, turning away to hide the tears in his eyes; his hands were shaking, his nails digging so deep into his palms that he thought he might draw blood. Suddenly, in a burst of energy, he shrugged off his coat and began furiously unbuttoning his waistcoat.

“What are you doing?” Grantaire said as he watched him.

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras pulled the waistcoat off almost feverishly, throwing it at Grantaire's feet, “There.” he spat, as Grantaire stared blankly at it, “Maybe now she can look the part more.”

Margot, to her credit, did not look half as scandalised as she perhaps should have by what was unfolding.

 _The poor girl does not deserve to be treated as a replacement,_ Enjolras thought.

Grantaire was speechless; a rare thing, for him to be without wit or words, and in any other situation Enjolras would have been proud to have rendered him such. As it was though, his silence only drove the knife in deeper.

“Enjolras...”

“Perhaps I should give her one of the cockades that Prouvaire made, too?” Enjolras hissed; he could feel tears rolling down his cheeks now, but prayed that he could play them as tears of rage. He would not let Grantaire see his heart breaking. He had made too much of an effort to be so far removed from such sentiments to let his weakness show now.

“Perhaps that would make it more convincing?" he said, "Make sure to conduct your affairs in low light, with plenty of wine in your blood, and maybe it will do for you. Will you marry her, Grantaire, if she becomes with child? Will you 'do right' by her, as you would have me? Or is your human decency only subjective?”

The words were unnecessarily cruel, he knew, but he could not stop them. Nausea was washing over him, a lump forming in his throat, and the words were rolling off his tongue without restraint.

“Enjolras, please, hear me out---”

“No.”

Enjolras tore the locket from around his neck, wincing as the chain broke, and threw it down with the waistcoat.

“Your wedding gift.” he said, voice wavering, “You may have it back. It is surely worthless to me now. Perhaps you should give it to the poor girl, for her difficulty this evening.”

Satisfied that he had made his point, Enjolras gave a small nod to Margot.

“Citizen, please forgive my intrusion.” he said curtly, pulling his coat back on and storming towards the door, head still spinning.

He had not made it five paces across the room when pain struck him with all the force of a sledgehammer; it was worse than it had ever been before, like a punch to the stomach, and he did not even have the strength to remain on his feet when it hit. He slumped against the nearest wall and then slid to the floor with a choked cry.

Grantaire was at his side in an instant.

“Enjolras?!" he said, panicked, "Enjolras?! What's wrong?!"

Enjolras could not form a response. He scrunched his eyes shut, gripping his stomach as the pain tore through him.

“Enjolras?!”

He reached out blindly for Grantaire, not sure if he intended to push him away or pull him closer. He only had time to grab a fisftul of Grantaire's shirt before darkness blotted his vision and he slipped out of consciousness.

 

* * *

 

When he woke he was warm, sweating profusely, and the pain in his abdomen was still there. The room was dark, lit by a single candle, and it took him a few moments to realise where he was. The scratchy sheets were familiar to him, and even in the dim light he knew that he was in Grantaire's rooms still, and in Grantaire's bed no less. He felt a damp cloth at his forehead, dabbing gently at his brow.

“Don't move,”

Enjolras turned his head to see that Grantaire was still at his side. His features seemed more pronounced in the half-light, the shadows beneath his eyes deeper, the breaks in his nose more distinct. Enjolras had always found those features most handsome.

“How do you feel?”

“Better.” Enjolras lied, “Margot---”

“I sent her away.” Grantaire informed him, “She will not say anything about you, I promise. She left with a few sous for her trouble.”

“Was she a prostitute?”

“No, Enjolras,” he frowned, “She came freely to my bed, believe it or not. Her silence, on the other hand, has a price.” he shrugged, “She'll not breathe a word.”

“Did she make you happy?” Enjolras asked weakly, “I should not have been so angry. Forgive me my outburst. It was unfair of me.” he winced as his stomach twisted again, “I left you, and yet I had the audacity to expect you not to take another lover - as though you still had some obligation towards me. If she made you feel good, then I---”

“She did not.” Grantaire mumbled, “Not for want of trying, poor girl. It was wrong of me. She was not you; she was too soft, too feminine. That has never happened to me before, I must say. I desire men and women alike, yet she was too much a sharp difference from you. I could not lie to myself. It was cruel of me; cruel to her, cruel to you.” he turned to soak the cloth in more water, wringing it out, “And cruel to myself. I truly am a wretch.”

Enjolras closed his eyes, turning his head away to hide the pain in his expression, “I am wounded that you found a girl to replace me in your bed.” he said, “Is that how you truly see me?”

“Of course not.” Grantaire said, and Enjolras could hear the hurt in his voice, “I...I did not set out with the intention of finding anyone, I swear. I dragged myself out of my bed to a wineshop and indulged my demons a little too much. She was there, and...after too much wine and loneliness, things went as they did. It was her hair that drew me to her. I would have approached a man with those curls of yours just the same, if I thought him so inclined.”

“Oh.” Enjolras murmured, “So, you and she...?”

“No.” Grantaire said firmly, “No, Enjolras. I could not.” he said, “I could not bring myself to do so. It has been easy to forget other lovers in the past in that manner. But I couldn't - not this time. Even with you gone, it felt too much like a betrayal. Adultery, in a sense."

His words put Enjolras at ease, though the sense of relief he felt made him feel terribly selfish; he did not have a personal claim upon Grantaire simply because they had been lovers. Grantaire was at perfect liberty to take anyone else into his bed.

 _But he didn't_ , Enjolras reminded himself. _He couldn't, because he loves you. He's yours, just as you're his._

“Why did you not tell me, Enjolras?”

Enjolras opened his eyes, studying the pained look on Grantaire's face. He looked like a man who had just seen death, and for a terrifying moment Enjolras wondered if he had worked out how sickly he was.

“Tell you what?” he dared.

Grantaire hesitated for a moment, before cautiously laying one hand against Enjolras' stomach.

_Oh. Oh, no, he thinks---_

“You could have told me.” Grantaire said, “What did you think I would do, after all we have discussed? I've suspected it for some time now that you did not lose it as you said. You kept brushing it off..."

“Grantaire...”

“I do not blame you for not telling me the truth sooner. I'm sure you have your reasons. I am unreliable, surely. Anyone who has ever met me could feel justified in putting their name to such a statement. But you could have been honest with me, Enjolras, truly, I...you could have...” he was stumbling over his own words now, shaking.

“I will look after you,” he vowed, “Both of you.” he moved his thumb in a gentle circle across Enjolras' stomach, pale-faced and nervous, as though he was not altogether sure of his own words.

“Its not like that.” Enjolras said feebly, “Grantaire. It is not what you think.”

Grantaire gave him an odd look but did not say a word, signalling for Enjolras to continue.

“I did lose the child. It is not that. I am sick,” Enjolras explained, “Very much so. Combeferre reckons it is the reason I lost it in the first place. He believes that I do not have long to live.”

Grantaire stared at him for a moment, and then slowly drew his hand away from Enjolras' stomach, eyes wide. He looked younger like that, Enjolras thought; vulnerable and frightened, not so rough around the edges, even with the stubble on his jaw.

For a while he said nothing, opening and closing his mouth a few times as though trying to coax words out of himself. Then finally, so quietly that Enjolras almost did not catch it, he said,

“You are dying?”

Enjolras closed his eyes and nodded. He could not look at Grantaire's face.

He heard Grantaire take a sharp breath, and then the floorboards groaned as he stood.

“You are dying.” he repeated, not a question this time.

“You are dying and you did not think to tell me?!” the words sounded as though they had been forcibly torn out of him. Enjolras dared to open his eyes again, watching as Grantaire paced wildly around the room, anguish written on his face.

“Grantaire...”

“No, Enjolras – surely there is a mistake,” he turned to face him, shaking so visibly that Enjolras wished he could leap from the bed and hold him, but the pain in his abdomen would not allow it.

“You cannot be dying. Not of this. Not _you_. You are supposed to die in fire and glory, not this...not like this...”

“It does not discriminate.” Enjolras said softly, “I am sorry.”

“Why did you not tell me?” Grantaire said, still pacing.

“I did not want to worry you with something that could not be changed.” Enjolras reasoned, knowing it would do nothing to comfort him.

“All this time,” Grantaire said, as though he had not heard him, “All this time I was a fool. I knew that you had chosen to die for this ungrateful country, and yet I hoped, Enjolras, I did. I still had dreams that it would all go well. That you might, against all my expectations, succeed and come through it unharmed. That you might achieve all you wished, and we could have a life together. I hoped, like a fool.”

“Grantaire...”

“Everytime I told you your revolution would fail I wanted so badly for you to prove me wrong, Enjolras.” he met his gaze then, and his expression was so intensely betrayed that Enjolras felt as though all the breath had been stolen from his lungs. There was nothing he could say to that.

“How long have you known?”

“Almost two months.”

Grantaire gave a strangled, mirthless laugh, “Of course. Now everything makes sense! I did wonder why you threw yourself on me so desperately after such a strange leave of absence.” he said, “You came to my bed twice knowing you were likely a dead man. And a declaration of love...” he shook his head, “I should have known nothing but the promise of death could wrangle those words out of you.”

“It is not like that!” Enjolras argued; he tried to sit up, grimacing from the discomfort it brought him.

He was only now realising how selfish he had been to seek comfort with Grantaire, knowing that he would soon be dead – and not just from when he had learned of his sickness, but from the revolution, too. From the moment his plans had taken a turn towards martyrdom, towards bayonets and cannon-fire, towards absolute victory or absolute defeat, he should have severed their tie.

Grantaire loved him, completely and truly, and Enjolras had only caused him more pain by letting him go on loving a man with a death sentence hanging over his head.

“I am sorry.” was all he could say when words found him again, “I should have ended this before it even started.”

This seemed to be the wrong thing to say. Grantaire turned away from him, kicking over his easel with a choked sob. It clattered to the floor along with the piece he had been working on, crashing against his desk as it went and knocking over several bottles and glasses.

“Grantaire...” Enjolras said, flinching at the noise.

Grantaire ignored him, grabbing his coat from the hook and throwing it on. He pulled on his cap and grabbed the half-empty bottle of gin off the dresser, knuckles white around the neck of the bottle.

“Maybe you should have.” he said, turning to look at Enjolras; he had a desperate look about him, “But you didn't, and thus, look where we are.” he took a large swig of the gin, face screwing up at the taste, “I will see you on the barricades, monsieur, if the drink does not do the musket's work for it.”

With that he left the room, slamming the door shut behind him so hard that the walls rattled in his wake.

“Grantaire!” Enjolras cried feebly from where he lay, “Grantaire!”

He tried to push himself into an upright position once again, but his stomach clenched in pain, and he collapsed back, feeling tears roll down his face.

“Grantaire!”

He went on for a while, calling Grantaire's name pitifully even when he knew he would now be out of earshot. He could not move, could do nothing but lay there and wait and pray for the pain to subside. He felt utterly pathetic.

Eventually, he gave up. It was clear that Grantaire would not be returning any time soon. His head felt heavy, he had exhausted himself from his tears and his throat was hoarse from shouting. He closed his eyes, feeling them burn behind his eyelids, and his last thoughts before drifting off to sleep once more were of the two of them.

 _I have wronged you terribly, Grantaire,_ he thought.

_I should not have let you love me when I am doomed._

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES! I FINALLY DID IT. A NEW CHAPTER.  
> Mainly this is for Wren and Ya'el who wanted to read it. So here. 
> 
> Be gentle with any small continuity errors; it's been forever since I touched this fic.

“Enjolras? Enjolras, can you hear me?”

The voice that dragged Enjolras back to reality was familiar and soothing, but he could not place it; it was distant, as though drifting to him from underwater.

“Enjolras? Enjolras, wake up.”

He opened his eyes, immediately closing them again; the room was brightly lit, morning light flooding harshly in from the single dust-covered window. For a moment he dared hope that maybe Grantaire had returned, but the voice was not hoarse enough to be his. He let out a sharp breath as he felt the pain in his abdomen again, grasping blindly for the hand that was on his shoulder.

He found fingers and gripped at them desperately, finding that he did not necessarily care who’s they were, caring only that he was not alone and that there was some comfort in that.

“Enjolras?”

_Combeferre._

“Enjolras, can you move?”

“I do not know,” Enjolras said, opening his eyes again slowly.

The pain had quashed his pride, and there was no use lying to him; Combeferre's medical knowledge and Enjolras' obvious discomfort made the idea futile.

“It hurts terribly.” he said. Combeferre, now coming into focus with the rest of the room, had a grave look about him.

“You have to try and move.” he urged, pressing the back of his hand to Enjolras' forehead, “You cannot simply lie here. If you do I fear you might not ever get up again. Once bedridden death comes upon you quickly.”

This was enough to provoke some measure of fight in Enjolras; he had too much to accomplish before he died. He could depart as miserably as he liked when the battle was over, and no sooner. He struggled, gritting his teeth as he pushed himself up onto his elbows, Combeferre steadying him somewhat.

He glanced around, for a fleeting moment hoping that Grantaire was there too, sitting quietly in the background. But there was no sign of him, and his coat and cap were still missing from the hook. _He has not been back then_ , he thought with despair.

“Why are you here?” he whispered, leaning heavily against Combeferre as he finally managed to sit up. His stomach twisted again.

“To help you, of course.”

“But how? How did you know...?”

“Grantaire came to our lodgings.” Combeferre explained quietly, “He was drunk, reeking of absinthe, but he told me where I may find you. He seemed concerned for your health.” he said, casting Enjolras a knowing look.

Enjolras closed his eyes, “I told him.” he said, “I fainted here - from the pain. I could hardly continue to lie to him after that. He thought that I was still with child; his face when I told him the truth, Combeferre...I swear that I shall have nightmares about it for the rest of my days, however few they may now be.”

Combeferre said nothing. Instead he stood and made his way across the room, returning with the waistcoat Enjolras had thrown off in his rage the night before, “Here,” he said, passing it to him, “We need to get you home.”

Enjolras pulled it on, pausing as he felt a familiar weight in the breast pocket; he dipped his hand into it, retrieving the locket. For a moment Enjolras felt the deep ache of longing in his chest, and feared that he might succumb to his grief. He wouldn’t allow that. He steeled himself, instead stuffing it back into the pocket and reaching for Combeferre to help him to his feet.

His death, he decided, had been preordained for the revolution.

Combeferre did not comment on the matter; Enjolras imagined he had rather given up trying, having finally learned how useless it was trying to convince him otherwise. Briefly, as they reached their home, Enjolras wondered what might happen if by some strange twist of fate he were to come off the barricades alive.

The regular nausea and pain in his abdomen was near unbearable; perhaps it would be better to put a bullet through his skull than succumb to a slow poisoning. Wasting away in his bed was not a death he had ever imagined for himself.

At least turning a gun on himself would result in a cause of death so obscenely apparent that there would be very little reason for his body to be examined. He would be thrown into an unmarked grave as a suicide and his secret would be buried with him. There was a strange comfort in that idea.

It would not be considered suspicious that a man who had committed the atrocities Enjolras was sure to commit in the name of his country would feel the urge to end his life - quite the contrary. It had been happening for centuries that men who saw war could not live with it. There would be no questions asked.

'What a tragedy,' his friends would say, and that would be the end of it.

 _I would prefer the shame of a suicide than the shame that would follow were my anatomy revealed,_ he decided.

Whatever happened on the barricades, of one thing Enjolras was staunchly determined; _do not be taken alive._

To be taken prisoner by the National Guard was already a nightmarish thought, but for Enjolras the horror was doubly so. If he was taken alive his secret would no doubt be revealed, and he did not expect his captors would chivalrous towards a 'woman' who had been aiming a musket at their companions. He was no fool; his high birth could not buy him a way out of the atrocities of war. He knew what soldiers were capable of, when their blood was up and they had anger in their hearts.

Enjolras had vowed that he would die a thousand deaths before being subjected to that.

Combeferre settled him into his room, bringing him warm milk and sitting on the edge of the bed as he drank it. He was eerily quiet, and thought ordinarily the silence between the two of them was comfortable, it was now suffocating to endure.

“If it is what you believe, how long do you think I have?” Enjolras dared to ask, taking a sip of his drink.

Combeferre shrugged, “I do not know.” he admitted, taking off his spectacles and beginning to clean the lenses, “I wish I was of more help to you, but truly, I have never witnessed this first hand before…books can only tell me so much…”

Enjolras looked down into his milk. He had known for a while that he was to die, of course. It was close now, death breathing it’s clammy graveyard breath against the back of his neck like a noose. Though he had contemplated his own death many times with the conception of their small rebellion it had remained a strange, elusive concept and little more.

But now it grew more and more real with every passing minute, and Enjolras would have to face it. A clock was ticking for his life.

The reality he faced was a blunt one; he was only twenty-two and the odds were stacked high that soon he would be dead.

“I cannot help you as much as I would like,” Combeferre said, and Enjolras noticed that his voice cracked, “I am still learning, and I do not fully know what to do for you…perhaps, if you were to see a different doctor, one far more practiced than I am, then…”

“We could buy me a little more time? No.” Enjolras said, “No, Combeferre. We have been over this before. I could not handle the shame. I’d be examined and exposed; not all doctors are as trustworthy and accepting as you, my friend.” he lay his head back on his pillow, regarding Combeferre fondly, “I do not want to risk wasting my remaining time in a madhouse. I would rather die a thousand deaths than be mocked and shunned for the way I am."

Combeferre gave a grave nod. He reached for his hand, whether for Enjolras’ comfort or his own, Enjolras was not sure. He took it, squeezing tightly.

“I know. I only wish that there were more I could do for you.”

“You have done far more than I had the right to ask,” Enjolras assured him, “And I am truly grateful, Combeferre.”

Combeferre smiled slightly, before clearing his throat and fumbling to put his spectacles back on, “I shall leave you to rest, then. If you should need me, you need only call out.”

“Thank you.”

Combeferre had not yet made to rise from the bed when there came a loud hammering on the front door that made them both jump.

“Wait here,” he instructed, dashing off down the hallway. Enjolras wanted to know where, at all, Combeferre thought me might go to in the time it took him to answer the door and return. He sat up in bed with a wince, hearing the frantic voice of Courfeyrac in the hallway, followed by footsteps as he and Combeferre came bustling into the room.

Courfeyrac’s hair was wild, his top hat sliding off the back of his head in a manner that was almost comical, “Enjolras,” he said, for a moment taken aback by his friend’s sickly appearance. He shook off his surprise in an instant, instead fixing his hat and saying, “General Lamarque is dead.”

 

* * *

 

Everything seemed to move quickly once the news hit. Against Combeferre’s advice Enjolras had thrown off his bed covers and forced himself onto his feet, dressing quickly so as to accompany Courfeyrac to the Musain, where most of Les Amis were already gathering to discuss what was to happen next. As they made their way through the streets they saw that doors and windows had already been boarded shut, the citizens of Paris sensing the tension in the air. Black reams of fabric had been draped out of windows in a show of mourning, and everywhere they went a solemn silence hung over the city. 

Enjolras walked as tall as he could, a piece of cloth balled up in his hand that he would grip tightly whenever the pain became unbearable. 

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac said suddenly as the Musain came into view, “Are you certain you are well enough for this?”

“Not at all.” Enjolras said honestly, clenching his jaw as another twinge of pain took him, “But that hardly matters now.”

“It matters a great deal.” Courfeyrac insisted, reaching to grab his arm. Enjolras stopped, feeling guilt coil in his chest.

“Do not bury yourself any earlier than you must, my friend." Courfeyrac pleaded, looking him up and down, "Please. Have some care for yourself."

"I am of little consequence in the grand scheme of things." 

Courfeyrac frowned, "No you aren't," he said, "You are loved dearly, Enjolras; by myself and by Combeferre, by your mother and, one would wager, by Grantaire.”

It was the first time Courfeyrac had dared bring up the affair with Grantaire since he had first learned of it, and though he could hear the care in his voice Enjolras found it almost insulting that his friend might think to use it against him. What right did he have? He tugged his arm away abruptly. He would argue no more about his decision to go to the barricades. He would have gone with a bayonet lodged in his chest as long as he were still capable of crawling.

He bristled slightly, raising his chin, “Do not dare to speak to me of things you know so little about. It was not like that.” he lied, “There was no love. There was no fondness. He was more like a mistress. You would know a thing or two about that, would you not?"

Courfeyrac looked as though he had been slapped.

"I...I only meant, that-"

"I know what you meant."

Enjolras, ashamed of himself and yet all at once pleased by the reaction, took off ahead towards the cafe, leaving Courfeyrac stunned in his wake. He regretted the harshness with which he spoke to him for the rest of the day; he knew in his heart that his friend only wanted what was best for him.

The cafe was in uproar when they arrived; the weapons they had stashed beneath the floorboards had been retrieved along with boxes of ammunition. They were laid out on the longest table in the room, Feuilly making a detailed account of their numbers so that they could equip each man. Enjolras took a box of bullets for his flintlock, wondering which of them would take lives and which would miss their mark. 

It was rumoured that Lamarque’s funeral was to take place on the fifth of June, just a few days from now, and so it had been decided; that would be the day. Several students would be in attendance at the funeral, and when the moment was right they would divert the procession to the Place de la Bastille. There they would make demands for a new Republic before falling back to their barricades, taking France's liberty at the point of a musket. It was close now - a date had been set and months of planning was coming to a conclusion. The city was holding her breath; Enjolras could feel it. 

He was weak when he returned home later that afternoon, kicking off his boots and setting his flintlock down on his dresser.

Once he would have remained at the Musain long after dark for the sake of his affairs, but now even the few hours he had dedicated to their imminent rebellion had rendered him exhausted. Even he was not so stubborn as to let himself pass out, though his concern was not for the sake of his own health, no, but for the impact it would surely have on Les Amis. It would hardly inspire those around him to see him so painfully, vulnerably human. As the unspoken leader of their group he needed to be seen as impervious now; he had to be a pillar of revolutionary ire, unaffected by outside forces, undaunted by the pain that seized his body and heart.

He could not be weak where revolution was concerned.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling off his waistcoat and shirt and glancing briefly into the mirror at his chest, bound painfully tight by bandages. As he began to remove them it occurred to him suddenly that he would likely die in them. They had served as armor in life, but thin strips of fabric could not guard against bullets. Riddled with sudden feelings of discomfort he finished shedding the bandages and pulled his shirt back over himself, laying down and closing his eyes to rest.

He woke hours later, sticky with sweat and curled up on his side. Combeferre was standing at his bedside, lips pursed.

“You have a visitor.” he said, voice flat. 

Enjolras forced himself to sit up, trying to read the expression on his friend’s face, “Who…?”

Combeferre didn’t answer, instead passing Enjolras his dressing gown to wrap around himself.

“He’s in the drawing room.” he said, “You ought to try to look at little less like death. It might be upsetting for him.”

Enjolras no longer needed to ask who his visitor was. He nodded, pulling on the gown and crawling from the bed. His mother had gifted him expensive rouge for his most recent birthday, and though he had thanked her like the dutiful daughter he had only thrown it into the trunk beneath his bed, never to be used. Now, however, it seemed it might suffice to disguise the severity of his sickness.

He applied it to his cheeks, gazing at his reflection in the mirror and feeling a strange ache. He looked more like he had once done with the rouge, and it was only looking at himself with color in his cheeks that he realized how truly sickly he had come to look. The difference was astonishing. Shoving the rouge back into his trunk he straightened himself up and made his way down the hallway like a man walking to his execution.

Grantaire was stood awkwardly in the drawing room, looking almost laughably out of place among the fine furnishings. He had come from a wealthy family, yes, but he had not looked the part since his father had sent him into exile in Paris; his coat was shabby, his boots were unpolished, and had not shaved in some time. He held his cap against his stomach as though somebody had died. It was fitting, Enjolras thought. 

He looked up when he heard Enjolras enter, scanning his face as though trying to read his expression, “Enjolras,”

His voice was hoarse, and it sounded as though he had done nothing but drink and smoke since their argument.

“Grantaire.”

“I did not mean to intrude,” he started, looking down shamefully, “If you wish, I can leave…”

“No. I don't want that,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire swallowed hard, “I wish to apologize,” he said, “I know I ought not to have come here, I simply…I could not part with you under such bad terms, I…” he would not look up to meet his gaze, “I left you. I’m sorry. I left you there, alone and in pain…I just…”

Grantaire was usually so eloquent; to hear him struggle for words was a rare thing. Enjolras felt as though his heart might break in two.

“I know. I am alright. I’m alive.”

“Barely. You are terrible at applying rouge, has anyone ever told you?”

Enjolras flinched, “I have not had any practice for quite some time.”

Grantaire finally looked up, “I feared I might call on you and find you already dead,” he whispered.

“No,” Enjolras said, and hearing the desperation in his voice found himself overwhelmed with the urge to throw his arms around him, “Not quite yet.”

Grantaire looked back down, gripping his cap so tightly his knuckles were turning white, “I am sorry. I should not have reacted as I did. I was…surprised, truthfully, and hurt that you would not trust me enough to tell me after all that has passed between us. I am sorry…”

“No,” Enjolras said, stepping towards him, “Do not apologize for your emotions. You had every right to be upset. I am sorry. I did not share with you when I should have.”

“I spoke harshly to you,” Grantaire argued, “I was a brute.”

Enjolras shook his head, “No more than I have been to you.”

Grantaire stared at him, “I know you did not tell me because you thought to spare me,” he said, “But it does not change anything.”

“I could not bear to make you grieve prematurely.” Enjolras said weakly, “I could not. I still cannot. You should not be tied to me when I am doomed. You do not deserve it, and I have inflicted it upon you all the same.”

“Tied to you?” Grantaire let out a stunned laugh, “Tied, as though without choice?"

"Grantaire..."

"I have chosen to be bound to you, Enjolras. We are in our own way married, remember? I asked you. I begged, even, and I would not change a thing. I will be with at your side on the barricade, or there at your deathbed, if need be,” he stepped closer to Enjolras almost cautiously, “And it is not because I am forced to. It is because I wish to be.”

Enjolras could feel tears pushing at the corners of his eyes. A long list of apologies ran through his mind, but he found he could not articulate as he normally did. Instead, he simply looked at Grantaire, and said, with all the helplessness of a man lost to it, “I love you.”

Grantaire furrowed his brow, as though confused, “Where have all your attempts at coldness gone?”

“You have chased them out of me. I have given up trying to discourage you.” Enjolras confessed, “I lay down my arms. I surrender.”

Grantaire stared at him for a moment, his eyes full of emotions that seemed too difficult to disentangle. He looked at him as if he were his whole world, all at once Enjolras found any resolve that remained abandon him.

He seized Grantaire by his cravat and brought his lips down to his, kissing him deeply, desperately, feeling the warmth of tears on his cheeks. Grantaire’s hands were against his face in an instant to wipe them away. They remained like that for what felt like a small eternity, breathing each other in as though they had been apart for years, before Grantaire finally broke the kiss.

“I won’t send you away again, if you do not wish it,” Enjolras whispered, face still close to his, “I promise you that. Never again."

Grantaire nodded, pressing his forehead against Enjolras’ and closing his eyes.

Enjolras found he could not help but smile, comforted by the sound of his breathing, the warmth of his body pressed up against his. This overwhelming feeling was evidence, in his mind, that he and Grantaire could not be separated - not by sickness or sorrow, not by revolution or by death. Fate had for some reason chosen to entwine them, and Enjolras found that he could no longer stand to try and undo that. 

At that moment Combeferre appeared in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. 

The two of them stepped back from each other, Grantaire quickly picking his cap up off the floor where he had dropped it and placing it back onto his head.

“I will take my leave now, having said my piece,” he said, glancing at Combeferre.

“There is no need to hurry yourself.” Combeferre said, shooting Enjolras a fond, exasperated look, “Though if you are going to stay, you should remove your coat. There is a hook by the door.” with that he turned and left, and Enjolras felt a rush of gratitude.

 

* * *

 

There was a certain childish pleasure in having Grantaire in his bedroom, Enjolras found. It was something that had been forbidden to him until now, he and Combeferre having reached a tense agreement that if Enjolras was to continue seeing the artist he was to do it outside of their home. It had not been that way in the beginning, no, but after Combeferre had had the misfortune of interrupting them on one occasion he had been firm that Enjolras was to conduct his liaisons somewhere where he would not have to know about it. 

Despite the perpetual ache in his gut, it was easy to pretend that nothing was wrong as they lay across the bed, kissing with such fervor it was as though they were already readying themselves for insurrection.

His nightgown had found it’s way onto the floor, leaving Enjolras down to nothing but the thin cotton of his shirt, and as he noticed this he felt Grantaire hesitate, pausing with one hand beneath the hem.

“You are ill…”

“Not so ill as to stop.” Enjolras said, and he wanted to laugh at the absurdity of his statement. He was near death, yet he would not deny himself what little pleasure he could still snatch from life. He pulled Grantaire closer to him, stealing another desperate kiss.

Grantaire, it seemed, did not need any further encouragement.

It was late in the evening when Enjolras woke, pressed up against Grantaire’s side and sprawled out among soiled sheets and discarded clothing. Grantaire was deep in sleep, snoring loudly, a mop of dark curls fanned out against his pillow. Enjolras smiled, sitting up and grimacing at the pain in his gut. It seemed determined to remind him of his poor health even in the few pleasant moments he dared steal for himself.

He could see the faint flicker of lamplight shining beneath his door from the study, signaling that Combeferre was still awake.

Sliding out of bed and finding his nightgown, he slipped out of the room silently, making his way down the hall. His friend was sat in his favourite chair, a book in front of his face.

“Why did you let him stay?” he asked.

Combeferre did not look up from his book, nor give any indication that he was surprised by the intrusion.

“Why should I try to send him away any more?” he said, “You have proven yourself far too stubbornly attached to him for me to fight. I conclude defeat, as it seems you have done so yourself.”

“I am sorry for my stubbornness.”

“It is one of your less endearing qualities, I shan’t lie.” Combeferre said, “Yet Grantaire seems most fond of it. Courfeyrac told me how you spoke to him earlier. You ought to apologize; he was hurt.”

“I will, of course. I was simply upset.” Of course it should figure that Courfeyrac had spoken to Combeferre of their earlier conversation; the two had always been close enough to warrant suspicion.

"Grantaire may stay here until the funeral, if it pleases you. He brings you some happiness.” Combeferre peered over the top of the book at him, eyebrows raised, “For that, at least, I cannot thank him enough.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said quietly, “For approving, in a manner…”

“I do not approve of it. I still believe it to be a foolish, reckless endevour.” he said bluntly, "And though I do not dislike Grantaire, I confess I find him a bizarre choice of suitor for you."

"It was not a conscious choice," Enjolras said, "I swear to you, Combeferre, I would not have actively decided to pursue a romantic affair with all of our plans..."

"I know that, Enjolras."

Combeferre set his book down on his lap, fixing him with an almost curious look, "You truly do love him, don't you?" he said, as though it were only now dawning upon him.

"Yes." Enjolras answered, this time without hesitation. He was done pretending his feelings for Grantaire were anything less than that.

Combeferre gave a small smile, "Then there is no point in me trying to dissuade you from him. What possible damage could you loving him and him loving you do now?"

Enjolras said nothing; he could not argue with that.

Combeferre picked his book up again, turning the page, "Go back to bed. You ought to rest. He helps you sleep, at the very least.”

Enjolras nodded. He paused for a moment, and then walked straight across the room to Combeferre, embracing his friend tightly, book and all.

“I could never have asked for a finer brother,” Enjolras said quietly, placing a kiss onto his forehead before turning and heading back to the warmth of his bed.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOME NOTES!  
> I finally decided to right some low-level smut, because everyone has been SO PATIENT with this fic, and also, I wanted a slight challenge. First time writing it, so be gentle.
> 
> Secondly, since it's now getting closer to a canon ending, take into account some bits will be a paraphrased, own take on the brick. As I mentioned earlier, I'm shifting some of the events around, ie bringing the Barriere Du Maine incident closer to the time of the actual barricades because it works better for the fic and also - it's fic. I'm going to shout artistic licence.
> 
> I'm dedicating this chapter to Wren for 'believing in my ability to write classy early nineteenth century smut' - thanks buddy.
> 
> Enjoy!

It was Grantaire stirring beneath the covers behind him that woke Enjolras the next morning, and for a brief moment he was confused; he and Combeferre had a tense agreement that he was not to stay over, so how was it that he was waking up in his arms? Then he recalled the night before, and a strange feeling of contentment - one that felt so out of place with all that was happening - settled over him. He smiled as he felt Grantaire press himself against his back, kissing the top of his shoulder, rough stubble scratching at his skin.

"Good morning," Enjolras said, arching into his touch.

“Good morning," Grantaire said, yawning loudly, "Did you sleep well?"

“Very," Enjolras said, closing his eyes again, "But now I am afraid I must get up. I have affairs to attend to, but you needn't hurry yourself."

"Don't be ridiculous." Grantaire snorted, "I'd like to take breakfast with you."

Enjolras smiled sadly; the conversation was so painfully normal that for a moment he wanted to imagine he'd have many more mornings waking up beside Grantaire like this. He imagined the revolution succeeding and the two of them retiring to the countryside as Grantaire had once suggested. They lived in a small town in the South where nobody asked questions, and where Grantaire found ample work as a painter. Enjolras penned political articles under a clever pseudonym, and revolution was something only talked about when they found themselves reminiscing. Enjolras even allowed himself to imagine that they had one or two children running around, getting underfoot, with Grantaire's dark curls and intelligent eyes. Combeferre and Courfeyrac visited them often, and they were able to grow old together there.

It was such a lovely thought that Enjolras found his eyes stinging with tears at the realisation that it would never come to pass. He dabbed his eyes with his sleeve, "Very well," he said. If Grantaire had noticed his unusually emotional state he was gracious enough not to comment on it.

“I am astonished that Combeferre has not yet burst into your room to usher me out, beating me with a broom like a stray dog for outstaying my welcome.” he mused instead.

“He says that you are welcome to stay until Lamarque's funeral. I spoke with him last night, after you had fallen asleep.”

“How generous of him! I do hope we were quiet enough for his liking, in that case."

Enjolras shook his head, exasperated, “Do not tease him if you should see him. It is a kindness that he is letting you stay here.”

“Oh, I do know,” Grantaire said, “He has made it quite clear that he disapproves of me as a choice of partner for you.”

“It has less to do with you and far more to do with me,” Enjolras said, staring up at the canopy of his bed, “He fears my secrets would be doomed by a lover with a loose tongue.”

“And what looser tongue than that of a drunk's, yes?” Grantaire raised one eyebrow, playing with a curl of Enjolras' hair, “He likely smells the gin on me and thinks me prone to talking crudely of you! I confess I am offended by the insinuation - I am more private about my relationship with you than I am in all other matters. I would never think to dishonour you by word or by deed."

“You needn't tell me that. I know that you would never betray me.” Enjolras said, sitting up.

“But he does not. I understand his fears.” Grantaire propped himself up on his elbows, kissing the corner of his lips sweetly, “He wants only the best for you, and in that respect we have much in common. I will not antagonize him. At least, not any more than I can help, though he makes it difficult to refrain. He is a delightfully easy mark."

“Oh, hush,” Enjolras murmured.

Grantaire smirked, but then the look faltered.

“It is June the second,” he said, suddenly quiet, “The day of our anniversary.”

“It is.” Enjolras realised. Judging from the solemn look on Grantaire's face, Enjolras thought perhaps he had been doing the same as him; envisioning for them a future that could not be. It was a painful thought.

“To think we have been doing this only a year,” Grantaire said, “It feels like it has been this way forever. I cannot recall a time when I was not in love with you, though that may be due in part to the wine.”

Enjolras smiled slightly, laying one hand over Grantaire's.

“Have you truly never doubted my loyalty to you?” Grantaire asked rather suddenly, seeming far more awake now.

Enjolras did not have to think, "No." he said, "Not once."

“Truthfully?”

“I do not appreciate how you sometimes speak of my ideals,” Enjolras said honestly, “But I have never doubted your loyalty to me as a lover. You simply are not loyal to the revolution, but I would never ask that of you. It is not for you, you have made that clear. I can respect that.”

“I would tear down Versailles myself if it would please you,” Grantaire promised him, an intensity coming over him that only seemed to show itself around Enjolras, “I swear it.” he said.

“I know that.” Enjolras said, feeling his skin tingle from the closeness, “But you don't need to.”

Grantaire pulled him close, kissing him deeply, and Enjolras felt himself melting instinctively into it. He should have been out of bed by now, preparing to leave for the Musain, but there was no indication that Combeferre was awake yet and Grantaire's hand was running up the inside of his leg in a way that made his thoughts drift in an unproductive direction. Still, he broke the kiss reluctantly.

"I need to get up," he whispered, making a half-hearted effort to pry himself away, "I have things to do..."

"You can't make Lamarque's funeral come any faster," Grantaire argued, kissing the side of his neck.

Enjolras made a small hum of assent, running his fingers through Grantaire's hair, "You've convinced me," he said, eliciting a small laugh from his lover.

"That was easily done..." Grantaire remarked, "I thought you were a slave to the revolution...?"

"Hush," Enjolras said, inhaling sharply as Grantaire's hand found it's intended destination. Letting himself be guided back down on the mattress he felt Grantaire smile against his neck, gloating in his victory.

Enjolras closed his eyes, submitting readily to his touch. He threw his head back against the pillow, unable to help the litany of little gasps and sighs that escaped his lips. Honestly, he did not even try to contain them - he knew the affect it had on Grantaire to hear him, and he relished in it. It occurred to him now how compatible they were in this regard; he recalled those first few rendezvous when they were still strangers to each other's bodies, eagerly learning. Grantaire had joked back then that he was more than happy to mentor Enjolras in such things, and it was true that together they had made a thorough study of the subject. They had gotten good at it. He balled up the bedsheets in his fists, squirming on the mattress as Grantaire's hand did it's work.

Unable to take the teasing any longer he pushed his hand away abruptly and sat up, startling Grantaire. He pushed him playfully onto his back to straddle him, making his intentions clear. Grantaire went willingly, holding his hands up above his head as though in surrender, "Am I to be your prisoner?" he asked.

"Yes," Enjolras decided, amused, "Until I see fit to free you. But it will please you to know I am merciful,"

Grantaire laughed, "Of course you are," he said, "Your revolution is just, afterall."

Enjolras felt an uncomfortable lump form him his throat; he did not want them to fall into another discussion about the revolution, especially not now. He leaned forwards, kissing Grantaire fiercely on the lips so as to prevent further conversation. Grantaire put up no resistance.

Enjolras paused to look down at him, their eyes locking for a moment. It was, perhaps, the result of impending doom, but sat astride him with his hands on Grantaire's chest, feeling his heart beating frantically beneath his palm, Enjolras found he felt more alive than he had in months. For a moment all thoughts of revolution left his mind; it all melted away and it was only the two of them, everything outside of the walls of his bedroom falling away and ceasing to exist.

Deciding that they had wasted enough time, Enjolras pulled away, running one hand down Grantaire's chest and further still, guiding him into him. He watched Grantaire's face as he did so, and delighted in the pleasure he saw there as he began to move.

Grantaire pulled Enjolras down to kiss him, cupping his face with his hands as the pace grew quicker, “I love you,” he said, suddenly so far removed from all his cynicism, “I love you, I love you...” he whispered it over and over, as though he feared Enjolras might forget if he did not repeat himself. Grantaire had always been talkative in bed; when they made love he would murmur epic poetry and tender verses against Enjolras' lips. It was amazing how much of a Romantic he turned into when he was inside of Enjolras. When they were done and it was over he would always scoff, claiming that it was naught but poetic nonsense and that the moment had simply gotten the better of him. Afterall, he would say, Enjolras was the silly idealist, not him. Enjolras knew differently. He was sure that Grantaire would have offered up his heart to him on a silver platter, and a knife to go along with it. 

He let himself sink into those endearments now, closing his eyes as they moved in unison, savouring the feeling that was building up in his stomach. It did not take long to bring him to the edge. He curved his back slightly, angling himself just right as the feeling grew, spreading like fire, and then all at once he was gone, lost to the sensation. He cried out Grantaire's name, feeling fingers tightening in his hair as the pleasure shook through him. Grantaire followed him almost immediately with a string of curses, nails digging into Enjolras' hips.

They remained like that for a few moments, breathing slowing in tandem, and then Enjolras rolled onto his side, collapsing beside Grantaire. Silence fell over them.

"I love you too," Enjolras said suddenly, turning his head to look at him.

Grantaire stretched out one arm, touching his fingertips gently to Enjolras' at his side, but said nothing. Half of Enjolras longed to know what he was thinking, and half of him did not, fearful that knowing might make going to the barricades harder. He thought back to that beautiful, impossible future again and closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Shamefully, it was almost noon before they left the bedroom - Enjolras to his study to confer with Combeferre about the state of Les Amis' affairs and Grantaire to the bakery to fetch them lunch. If Combeferre had heard anything of their earlier activities, he pretended otherwise.

“At the meeting today I expect Grantaire to arrive before or after us. It would raise too many curiosities if he should arrive with you.” Combeferre said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as they slipped.

“Do you think I am not already well versed in this art?” Enjolras said bluntly, “I have been conducting this affair for a year. A year today, as a fact. I have been at meetings before where he and I had liaised beforehand, and you have never noticed.”

Combeferre looked at him almost pitifully, “You thought so.” he said, “But you have a terrible habit of not fixing your cravat afterwards. Fortunately I believe I am the only one to catch on."

Enjolras flushed; he'd always assumed he was the very picture of discretion. Apparently not.

“Well, Grantaire shall wait around here, and join us ten minutes following our arrival. Is that good for you?” he said.

“Yes. Now, enough of this. We have real matters to discuss; how many guns do have have between us?”

They left for the Café Musain after they had eaten lunch, with Grantaire following them at a slower pace. Meeting attendance was small; it was a risk meeting in the day, and many did not want to risk implicating themselves with the groups goings on. When Enjolras and Combeferre arrived at the cafe they found only those at the heart of Les Amis waiting for them. Enjolras refused to be disheartened by this fact; others would come. Despite their small numbers, the Musain was louder than ever.

“Listen to me!” Enjolras urged, raising his voice above the clamor and calling for silence with a raised hand, “We must know where we stand and on whom we may count. How many of us are there?” he said, scanning the room, “There is a task that needs doing and there is no question of postponing it until tomorrow; revolutionists should always be hurried, progress has no time to lose. We need to know for certain which barricades are prepared for what is to come. Combeferre has promised me to go to Picpus. Feuilly, you to Glaciere. Bahorel, you shall go to Estrapade, Prouvaire, you to Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Honore. Joly, you will visit Dupuytren's clinical lecture and speak to the medical students and Bossuet, you shall talk with the law students. I shall take charge of the Cougourde myself.”

“Is that everything, then?” Courfeyrac asked.

“No; there is another matter,” Enjolras told him, feeling his stomach turn, “Barriere Du Maine.”

He lifted his head to address the café as one again, “At Barriere Du Maine there are painters and marble workers. They seem to have lost their enthusiasm for liberty - they pass their time playing dominoes instead. One of us must go to them, to rekindle the flame and bring them back into the fold. Our numbers are low and we cannot afford to lose their support.” he said, “I had counted on Marius for this task, but he no longer comes to us. As it is, I have no one.”

“What about me?” It was Grantaire who spoke up from his table at the back, having slunk unnoticed into the café mere moments ago, “Here I am.”

Enjolras stared at him for a moment, stunned.

“You?”

“I.”

“You, win our comrades at Barriere Du Maine back to our cause?” Enjolras could not hide the disbelief in his tone.

“Me.” Grantaire persisted.

“Are you good for anything?” Enjolras said, feeling horribly guilty at having to speak so harshly to him in front of their group.

“I have a vague ambition for it,” Grantaire said, eyes locked onto Enjolras'.

“Do you truly wish to do me a service?”

“Anything. I'd black your boots.” there was a look about him, a slight curve of his lips that made Enjolras' heart pound.

“Well then, don't meddle in our affairs.” he said dismissively, looking back to his documents on the table.

“You are an ingrate, Enjolras.”

Enjolras bristled. He knew he was being bated, yet he could not help but rise to it.

“You do not believe in anything.”

“I believe in you.”

The words stuck like a knife in his chest. He swallowed hard.

“You will speak to them of the Republic?”

“Do you take me for a brute?” Grantaire scoffed, “I have the capacity to be terrible with these things. I am well read in such matters, yet you do not appreciate me offering my services to you! I have read 'The Rights of Man'. I am familiar with the importance of liberty for all citizens. I find Rousseau a pretentious bore, but I am well acquainted with his works. I am up to the task. I can recite great things, at length, if provoked to do so.”

Enjolras knew all of this - he knew all of it and more. Grantaire was capable of many things, but he was no revolutionary. He spoke often of the futility of Enjolras' plans, yet here he was, suggesting he play a part in them.

“Be serious,” he muttered.

“I am wild.”

Enjolras glanced around at those of Les Amis again, praying they had not noticed how personal Grantaire's request had been.

“Very well,” he said, at last conceding defeat on the matter, “Grantaire, I consent to try you. You shall go to Barriere Du Maine.”

Grantaire nodded, eyes lighting up as he got to his feet to leave the café. _He wishes to prove his loyalty to me, revolution and all_ , Enjolras realised. He thought of their earlier conversation, and realised he had brought this matter upon himself. He would let Grantaire do this task, if it was truly what he wanted.

Enjolras could not help but feel shame for the way he spoke to Grantaire in their meetings. He wanted to keep their public interactions as limited as possible, for it pained him to be so cruel. Enjolras had always thought it easier to pretend to loathe Grantaire than to pretend to merely be close friends; the temptation of closeness would invite intimacy that would, in turn, invite suspicion.

When Grantaire returned to the Musain from his rooms a short while later, Enjolras had to stop himself from doing a visible double take. It seemed he had only left to don the red Robespierre waistcoat he had recently acquired, doing so clearly for the sake of eliciting a reaction from Enjolras. It worked, Enjolras had to confess. It fit him well, and though red was a colour Grantaire scarcely wore, it suited him nicely.

_He is playing a cruel game with me in front of everyone._

Enjolras glared at him, feeling his cheeks burn up as Grantaire straightened up the points of the waistcoat with a dramatic flourish.

“Red,” he said, and leaned in close to him, _far_ too close for propriety. His breath was warm against his ear, his voice low in that husky way that made Enjolras' resolve waver and desire stir inside him.

“Be easy.” he murmured.

Feeling as though all the blood in his body had just rushed to his face, Enjolras leaned sharply away from him and tried to chase the embarrassment from his features. Combeferre cleared his throat awkwardly, and Courfeyrac stared with wide eyes, looking as though he rather admired Grantaire's boldness. For a moment Enjolras was grateful for his less than conventional anatomy; he was certain that if he had been born with the more usual parts his arousal would have made itself evident.

Clearly satisfied with the result, Grantaire pulled his cap on with a look of determination and turned to leave.

This strange show of intimacy towards Enjolras had not gone unnoticed by the rest of the group; a few of them were eyeing him with confusion as Grantaire made his exit. Enjolras could not blame them for being perplexed - it must have been quite a thing to witness the usually rebuffed cynic crossing such boundaries and escaping unscathed. Enjolras was tactile with those closest to him – to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, most notably – but never to Grantaire. Grantaire, to the rest of the group, had never mustered any fondness in Enjolras' heart.

 _If they only knew what had transpired between us mere hours ago,_ Enjolras thought with a blush.

Fortunately the moment passed, and attention swiftly moved from Enjolras and Grantaire's suspicious interaction to talk of barricades.

It was only when the café was empty of their friends that Combeferre approached him, joining him at the table as he sifted through their notes.

“Why did you send him to Barriere Du Maine?”

Enjolras did not look up from what he was doing.

“Enjolras?”

“Yes?”

“Look at me, please.”

Enjolras grudgingly did so; his mouth was a hard line, his eyes knowing.

“Why did you send Grantaire to Barriere Du Maine?” He repeated, slower, “You could have easily denied his request, and you know it. I mean no insult when I say he is not fit for the job.”

“He expressed a desire to do us a service,” Enjolras muttered, running pale fingers anxiously along the edge of the pages.

“You. He expressed a desire to do _you_ a service.”

“Is the distinction truly so important?”

“Why did you send him?” Combeferre said again, in a way that demanded an answer.

Enjolras felt like a child once more, under the stern gaze of his father.

“I told you. He wished to be useful, and I granted him that. They are artisans and sculptors at Barriere Du Maine, if anyone will turn their attention back to our cause, it is one of their own---”

“Enjolras.” Combeferre said, “We both know that isn't why.”

“If you are already so sure why I sent him there, then why do you continue to vex me about it?” Enjolras bristled. It was a pity the cold, unapproachable air he had learned to give off did not affect Combeferre as it did other men.

“You trust in him too much.” he said, and Enjolras would have cursed his presumptuousness did he not know deep down that it was true.

"Do not accuse me of favouritism, I pray," Enjolras snapped, "I would not risk our cause for so trivial a thing."

"I am not accusing you of favouritism, Enjolras," Combeferre said, "I know that is not the case."

"Then why are you criticizing me? I could hardly turn down the offer of help."

"You ought to have." Combeferre said, "I know you want to give him a chance to prove that he can be trusted, and that you desperately desire to know your judgement is not impaired by your feelings, but he is not the man for the job.”

Enjolras tensed at his words, and with that, Combeferre softened. He placed one hand on his shoulder, “My friend, you need to abandon this flight of fancy. Your lover in private is one thing - a fellow revolutionary is another entirely. Send word for him to come back; I will go, once I am finished at Picpus.”

Enjolras jerked his arm away, fingers grazing the sharp edges of the paper, drawing blood.

“You once said you would never presume to tell me what to do, so do not.” he said hotly, sucking at the cut on his finger, “I could not deny him a chance to prove his loyalty, when it was all he's ever asked of me.”

"Enjolras..."

"I was not good to him, Combeferre,” he looked away, stomach coiling with guilt, “I cast him away as though he'd been nothing but a curious pastime. I continued to go back to him, even then. A sure way to confuse the poor man's heart..."

Combeferre remained silent, a cue for Enjolras to continue.

“I am ready to die for our country, Combeferre. More ready than almost anybody, I am quite sure. I am pleased to think my death may have a purpose. I have made my peace with it.” he swallowed hard, “I am not frightened of revolution, and I am not frightened of death. I would go through fire and ice for justice and liberty if need be. But there is something I am scared of, Combeferre..." His youthful fear must have shown upon his face, for Combeferre lay his hand gently against his arm, “I am scared that I will be revealed. I am scared that they will take my voice from me, because they would not see me as I am. They would say I am a woman, throw me into a madhouse, and all my work would be for naught, and...” Enjolras hesitated, “If I am to die, by this sickness or by the bayonet, then among all of this I only wish to know I can trust the man that I...” he finished there, stacking the papers as neatly as he could with shaking hands, “He will succeed, you shall see. He is a good man.”

“I have never doubted his goodness, Enjolras - only his ability to hold his tongue.” Combeferre assured him, “I trust your judgement, and I know you would not love someone who was not wholly good at heart.”

Enjolras avoided his gaze, “He believes in me.” he said quietly, “And perhaps I am a damned fool to do so, but I believe in him also.”

Combeferre said nothing against it, instead giving a small nod, “Then I hope he does not disappoint.”

Enjolras lifted his chin, defiant in his belief.

“He won't.”

 

* * *

 

As Enjolras made his way to where the members of the Cougourde met, someplace near the plain of Issy, he found his feet taking him in the direction of Richefeu's - it was not far from where he now was, little more than a short detour on his way to his errand. It would be good, he thought, to see how Grantaire had succeeded in winning the men there back to the cause.

Enjolras did not imagine Grantaire would have struggled with his task - even before their affair had been born he had, privately and from afar, found Grantaire to be pleasing company. Despite his drinking and his rambling, he had been tolerated among their group for his good humour and his wit. Even when he had tried to emit disdain towards him, Enjolras had found him most curious indeed, though he would have never admitted to it even at gunpoint.

Grantaire could be charming and clever, and it was these very attributes that were needed for the task he'd been given.

Enjolras walked swiftly to Barrie Du Maine, thinking deeply on the efforts and many merits of his friends. Combeferre, with his analytical mind and unwavering loyalty. Courfeyrac, with his cheer and pomp. Bahorel's smile, Prouvaire's poetry, Joly's care for his companion's health. Bossuet with his sarcasm, and Feuilly with his industrial enthusiasm. He could not have found himself amid a better group of people, Grantaire included. Cynic though he may be, Enjolras trusted him perhaps more than anyone, save for Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

He reached Richefeu's quickly, keeping his head down as he approached; he had never been fond of such places. Richefeu's was a cafe just like the Musain, but unlike the Musain it's position in the city - found at an intersection between a known brothel and a gin shop - made for a bawdy clientèle among the likes of which Enjolras could not look more obviously out of place. A few of the men standing outside the cafe whistled and jeered at him as he passed by, but he pointedly ignored them, pushing past and swinging open the door of the smoking room.

It was chaos inside, smoggy and roaring with the sound of laughter. He usually cut a fearsome figure, the sort that would bring anyone to a stop and required no introduction, but it seemed that the men inside the room were too absorbed in their revelry to pay him any heed as he stood in the doorway.

The air was thick with tobacco smoke and the smell of wine, and he found himself wrinkling his nose in disgust as he tried to pick out that intimately familiar figure among the rabble. Over the raucous, he heard it - a voice known so well to his ears that to hear what it said felt like a shot to the heart;

“Double six!”

Grantaire, sitting opposite one of the men from Barriere Du Maine, cap resting on the back of his chair, was utterly engrossed in the game of dominoes he was playing.

Enjolras watched him for a moment, feeling as though the ground had given way beneath his feet, and then turned and disappeared into the dark streets of Paris, heart heavy with betrayal and hands clenched into fists at his sides.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go. Warning, it's time for everyone to die, a la canon.
> 
> I do skip a few bits that obviously happen, like Gavroche's death and Valjean being there. I feel bad, but this fic is about Enjolras, and I could only focus on so much of the barricade scenes without detracting from the story. I'm not Hugo and this isn't the brick, so there's no real harm in missing out Valjean. Sorry not sorry.

He could not understand.

He had been certain that Grantaire would not fail him.

As he walked Enjolras found himself trying to form all manner of outlandish excuses with which to absolve Grantaire of his guilt – perhaps Grantaire had tried, but the men at Richefeu's had waved off his attempts? That seemed unlikely; he was one of their own, afterall. He had studied under a great artist, something that surely commanded some sense of camaraderie between him and the men of Barriere Du Maine. No, that was not likely at all.

Perhaps by immersing himself in a game of dominoes with one of them, Grantaire had hoped to win their friendship before embarking on his crusade to win them back? Also unlikely; he had already seemed halfway to dead drunk when Enjolras had stumbled upon him, not in any fit state to wax rhetoric about revolution and liberty.

No, deep down, Enjolras knew he had simply misplaced his trust.

He had let his heart lead him blindly to foolishness.

Combeferre was waiting up in the study when he returned to their lodgings later that evening, apparently finishing up with something he was writing.

He glanced up as Enjolras entered the room, and the moment he laid eyes on him, frowned.

“What's the matter?” he asked, looking him up and down, “Is it your sickness?”

“No.”

“Did something happen with the Cougourde?”

“No.”

“Then...?”

“I visited Richefeu's.”

Combeferre's features hardened, “Ah.” he said. That was enough.

Enjolras stayed where he was, lingering in the doorway.

“You were right.” he said, voice small, “I should have listened to you.”

“I am sorry.”

“He was half stewed in gin,” Enjolras said, feeling the disdain creep into his voice, “Playing dominoes and smoking as though there weren't a care to be had.”

“Perhaps it was a ruse?” Combeferre suggested charitably, though it was painfully obvious from the look on his face that he did not for one moment believe it, “A way to integrate himself among their numbers?”

Enjolras scoffed, “You needn't be gentle with my feelings, my friend,” he said. He could see the sympathy in Combeferre's eyes, and he hated it. Grantaire had made him look a pitiable fool at best, and at worst brought his ability to make decisions for the revolution into question.

“It was my own mistake.” Enjolras said, “I should have never assumed him to be good for anything important.”

“You speak out of anger,” Combeferre said, “Whilst he is no revolutionary, you know that assessment to be a harsh one.”

Enjolras agreed, but he said nothing. He was too angry to admit that his words were unfairly cruel. He looked away, “If he should come to the door tonight, or any other night, send him away,” he said, turning to leave.

“Enjolras, wait,” Combeferre rose to his feet, holding out to him a freshly sealed envelope.

“What is this?” Enjolras asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

“A letter - for your mother. If you send it in the morning, it should not arrive until after the barricades go up, and by then it shall be too late for her to interfere.”

Enjolras did not let Combeferre see how the thought struck him like a blow.

“Ah. Thank you,” he said, reaching to take it.

Combeferre drew it back, brow furrowed, “Think, before you take this.” he said, “This is your last chance to make a different call. Courfeyrac and I can man the barricades fine enough without you. You have done much. You could leave, rest, live out what time you have left in some comfort. You may yet have several months.”

Enjolras met his gaze fiercely, “Several months to perish in agony.” he said.

Combeferre pursed his lips. “Or several months to enjoy some shred of happiness for yourself.”

Enjolras shook his head, “I have made my decision.”

Combeferre stared at him for a moment, and then nodded, offering him the letter again, “Very well. I only wished you to be certain of your choice.” he said, “I have written of your situation, if you do not find it intrusive of me. I gave your mother my professional medical opinion on the matter, so that she might, in some small way, understand.”

Enjolras felt his heart swell in his chest at the gesture. He smiled. “Thank you...”

“Now go, sleep. You will need as much rest as you can get.”

Grantaire did not return that night, or the day after. Enjolras had spent much energy bracing himself for a confrontation that never came. The days passed, Lamarque's funeral drawing closer with each, and Enjolras busied himself with coming to and from the Musain with plans, maps and boxes of ammunition. It was a distraction from the heartache, and also from his sickness.

After being so certain that his father's funeral would be the last he would attend, he found there was a bitter tasting irony in that he would get to attend one more.

One more that would be the catalyst to insurrection.

 

* * *

 

On the eve of the funeral Enjolras found that he could not sleep. His whole body was charged with excitement, his mind restless. Despite this, the streets outside were implausibly calm, caught in that strange place of serenity between night and dawn where even the brilliance of the sun was cautious as it trickled through dark alleyways and closed shutters. How, Enjolras thought, could Paris sleep so peacefully when a war was about to be waged on her streets and blood spilled in her gutters?

He closed his eyes, willing himself to rest.

He must have only been sleeping for a few minutes when he woke, startled awake to the sound of something rapping against his window. He sat up, listening for it again; the distinct 'tap' of a small stone hitting glass.

He slipped from the bed, tying his dressing gown around his waist and pulling back the shutters, looking down onto the street.

Grantaire stood there, his clothes as dishevelled as his hair, a bottle hanging limply from one hand, “Apollo! Achilles! What fool gave you a mortal name?”

Enjolras opened the window, leaning out into the morning air. It was raining lightly.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed, “Do you want for someone to see you?”

“Forgive me, my love,” Grantaire said, “I called upon you last night, but Combeferre turned me away at the door. I could not think of another way to see you. Open the door, won't you?”

“Why?” Enjolras said, feeling his anger rise, “You aren't wanted here.”

“Come off, mon cher, be kind,” Grantaire protested. He sounded as though he had already started drinking. Enjolras felt at once equal parts disgust and pity.

“Leave. You betrayed me. Why would you think to volunteer yourself for something if you intended not to go through with it?” he snapped, “You hurt me.”

Grantaire looked physically pained to hear this, “I did not mean to, you must believe me...” he said, “I did not mean to. I would never have meant to. You must believe me. You must...”

“I must do nothing. Go. I am going to topple the government today and I have not yet rested.”

“Then a kiss, for luck!” Grantaire said, a pleading edge to his voice, “The sunlight turns your hair to gold! You are so far away, up there from your window! I feel as though my wings might melt like Icarus if I were to venture closer to you!” he gazed up at him, that thoughtful, glassy-eyed haze of drunkenness settling over him, “But I would gladly burn for the chance..."

Enjolras looked away, loathing himself for his own feelings.

“Leave.” he said, “Before anybody should see you. How would you explain this ridiculous display?”

“I would be truthful.” Grantaire said, “I would tell them I am desperately in love with a distant star! I am done with hiding my feelings for you; my love for you is the only beautiful thing about me. It demands to be shown to the world! It would make the best of poets weep! Prouvaire should craft us a sonnet.”

Enjolras felt a horrible ache in his chest. He shook his head.

“Please leave, Grantaire.”

Finally, seeing that Enjolras had made his decision, Grantaire seemed to give up. All at once he seemed to deflate, the light in his eyes leaving. He brought the bottle to his lips, taking a large swig, “Very well.” he said, and then gave a dramatic bow, his movements heavy and slow, rain dripping off his dark curls.

“Goodbye, Monsieur. I will see you at the revolution.”

Enjolras gave a curt nod, quickly slamming the shutters closed. He could not look at him a moment more, his presence a terrible source of conflict. A part of him screamed to take him back, to sneak him into his rooms and enjoy one final tryst before he was to traverse into hell. But his pride far outweighed his longing, and he had long ago made it clear to Grantaire that he would never have him whilst drunk.

He glanced at the time, seeing that he was due to wake soon, and decided that sleep would have to remain an elusive creature to him. He shed his nightgown, laying out his clothes on the bed. It was as much a uniform as that of the National Guards', he thought; a coat of scarlet red, a tricolour cockade, a belt to slip his pistol into. The uniform of a Revolutionary he thought, as he dressed himself.

He hesitated once he was clothed, inspecting his reflection in the mirror. The coat fit him well; it gave him a broad, masculine slope to his shoulders that he took secret pride in. Something was missing, though. His eyes went almost instinctively to his bedside table, and the locket that sat there. The chain was still broken from his furious outburst at Grantaire's room, but it mattered not; he took it, slipping it into the inside pocket of his coat. If he could not embrace Grantaire then he could at least go to the barricades with some small token of all that had passed between them on his person.

Grantaire had angered him, yes, but Enjolras doubted anything he did could have made him stop loving him.

As he straightened up his coat there came a soft knock at the door, distracting him from the thought.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre called, “Are you awake?”

“Yes.” he said, tying his cravat. He had never been good at it, he thought miserably, and there was no point in learning now. 

“May I enter?”

“Of course.”

Combeferre stepped into the room, dressed just as finely in a dark blue tailcoat, the same cockade upon his breast and belt around his waist, “I heard the show this morning...”

Enjolras grimaced, “I am sorry if it woke you.”

“I was already awake.” he said quietly. Enjolras found a strange sense of comfort in knowing that he had not been the only one to suffer a restless night. He wagered that the rest of them had not slept very soundly either, if at all.

“And I.” he said, turning to him, “Are you ready?”

“As ready as one can be for such things.” Combeferre nodded. He watched Enjolras as he crossed the room to where he had set his father's flintlock on the desk. Enjolras picked it up, trying to get used to the weight in his hand. He wished he had thought to get some practice with it, but he was certain that when the moment came he would be able to do as much damage with it as the next man. He had spent many hours learning to reload quickly, getting it down to a swift art. That was the most important part. It was not complicated to shoot, only to kill.

“To the funeral, then.” he said, slipping the pistol into his sash. His stomach twisted in pain, a reminder that there would be no coming home for him, no matter how the events of the day unfolded.

He had decided if he were to survive by some stroke of fate, he would do the deed himself.

 

* * *

 

“TO ARMS!"

Rue de la Chanvrerie was alive. All hell had broken out at Lamarque's funeral procession; amid a steady downpour of rain and calls for the formation of a Republic, the funerary cortège had been diverted to Place de la Bastille, and within moments the National Guard had opened fire upon the students there. Many had scattered under the gunfire, slipping through the winding alleyways to converge elsewhere. Enjolras let out a breathless sigh of excitement as he saw more coming to join them. Panting, wild-eyed students, some of them bloody from the outburst at Place de la Bastille. Many of them carried weapons - muskets, carbines, pikes, sabres and even weapons as rudimentary as iron bars, pried from windows.

The energy in the air was unanimous; the mob was one creature, living, breathing, baying for blood.

The crowd stormed the Corinth in haste, Combeferre shouting above the clamour to start constructing the barricade as Enjolras began to hand out cartridges to the men.

Rue de la Chanvrerie had long been regarded the most admirable position for their barricade; the mouth of the street was gaping, but as it went along it narrowed to a point, with the Corinth – a bistro that had been discovered by Grantaire over a year ago - blocking off the end. Every shutter, door, window and entrance along the street had been boarded up by the residents, a mattress even secured to one window in an effort to deflect against bullets.

Enjolras watched with a swell of pride as the barricade was born before his eyes. Months of planning, monthss of covert meetings in smoky cafés was taking on a physical manifestation, standing only seven feet high but stretching out along the end of the street, barring access to the Corinth from all who might dare approach her from the other side. The blockade had been prepared with impressive haste, among it's features an upturned carriage, doors, crates, casks, and even an old piano. It was magnificent.

Joly and Bossuet had already been inside the Corinth when Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac's group had shown up, and though already well on their way to mildly intoxicated, they seemed to have been sobered by the hubbub around them. If Joly and Bossuet had been drinking there then Enjolras thought it a safe assumption that perhaps Grantaire had been with them, having gone there from Enjolras' lodgings after being turned away.

Indeed, he did not need to look far.

In the upstairs room Grantaire was jovially drunk, hassling some poor grisette like an overly ardent lover. He could smell the wine on him from some distance.

“Grantaire!” he snapped, and this time, he did not need to fake the anger in his voice.

“Go and sleep off your wine elsewhere!”

Grantaire started as he became aware of Enjolras' presence in the room. He seemed to wilt, sinking back into his chair. Seeing the hurt and disappointment in Enjolras' eyes he fell immediately silent, staring at him with guilt and a painful tenderness that almost had Enjolras relenting to him. Had more people not been around, Enjolras might have thought to pull him aside and speak with him properly.

“Let me sleep here.” he said.

“No.”

“Let me sleep here, or else die here.”

“This is no place for your drunkenness. Do not disgrace the barricade.” Enjolras said. He had no time for softness now.

“I believe in you.” Grantaire said pitifully.

“Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of willing, of living, or of dying.” The words felt sharp in his throat, but he forced them out.

There was a beat of silence, and then Grantaire slumped forwards on the small table he had commandeered for himself, fingers tightening around the neck of his bottle, “You will see,” he vowed quietly, and Enjolras was sure he had never seen him look so defeated, “You will see.”

With that, he was asleep – dead to the world and all within it. Enjolras stared at him for a moment, and then, remembering that they were surrounded by prying eyes, left him there, making his way back down the stairs to where the men were now amassing. He wondered he would ever see him again, should the bullets come before he awoke.

“A musket! I want a musket!” The gamin by the name of Gavroche approached him as he reached the bottom of the stairs, apparently having made the rounds around the room, demanding a gun from each man who would listen.

“Will you not give me a musket?” he said.

“A musket for you?” Combeferre made his way over to them, holding his carbine.

The boy puffed out his chest, “Why not?” he asked, indignant.

Combeferre glanced at Enjolras, eyebrows raised.

Enjolras shrugged, “When there are enough for the men, we will start giving them to the children.” he stated. There was no reason not to; street gamin were another breed entirely, long lost of much of the childishness that marked childhood. Paris could be cruel and many of the those banished to a life on her streets were men long before their time. Besides, the National Guards' bullets would not bother to discern between child and man.

Still, Gavroche did not seem satisfied with the answer in the least bit.

He scoffed, crossing his arms, “If you are killed before me, I will take yours!”

Enjolras bristled at his audacity, “Gamin!”

“Smooth-face!” the child spat back.

With that Gavroche was gone, disappearing into the crowd as he weaved among the men to busy himself elsewhere.

Combeferre gave him an amused look, “So you have taken to arguing with children?”

“I haven't the time for this,” Enjolras said, loading his musket, “Come. Get Courfeyrac. We need to position sentries on the barricade, and I should like him to take first watch. We need those we trust the most.”

“Very well.” Combeferre said, and then hesitated, “Is Grantaire present?”

“Upstairs, reeking of wine,” Enjolras said, resting the musket against his shoulder, determined not to look at Combeferre. He dreaded having to see the knowing look in his eyes.

“He is unconscious. I left him to it. He is no use to the revolution. It would be better for all if he were to simply sleep through it.”

“Better for all?”

“Let me be.” Enjolras said quietly, “I cannot allow my heart to be in two places today.”

At that moment a shot rang out, sounding perilously close to the Corinth. They exchanged looks of alarm, both wondering at once if the National Guard was already upon them, and then ran outside towards the source of the commotion. A group of men had gathered in the arched doorway of one of the boarded up houses, and one of them, smoke still rising from the end of his musket, cried with haughty accomplishment,“That's it!”

“Le Cabuc shot the doorkeeper,” one of the men said, loud enough for Enjolras to hear, “He would not open the door for him!”

He looked around, seeing the uncertainty in the group, the unspoken question of what, if anything, would be done. The shooter let the nose of his musket drop to the pavement, an air of pride about him, “If we are at the windows, we shall see anyone who comes up the street!” he said. It was as good as a confession.

All at once Enjolras' decision was made for him. It was a decision he did not want, dreaded, but dutifully felt obliged to carry out. There could be no clemency for murderers, and he was the leader here. Revolution without discipline was not revolution, but organised savagery. He had vowed from the very beginning that he would do whatever was necessary.

His face turned as cold as marble. He reached forwards, clasping the man's shoulder with a vicelike grip, “On your knees.” he said, voice as hard as his features. Le Cabuc turned to him, startled, and seemed to try to pull free for a moment; Enjolras gripped him, knuckles turning white, “On your knees.” he repeated.

In one movement, finding that he was strengthened by his conviction, Enjolras forced the man to bend so that he was kneeling. Enjolras saw Combeferre watching him, but did not waver. There was no room here for lenience; if others followed Le Cabuc's example, they would have madness in their own ranks.

He pulled his pistol from the sash around his waist and his pocket-watch from the breast of his waistcoat, holding one in each hand, balanced like scales.

“You have one minute,” he said, “Pray or ponder.”

“Mercy!” Le Cabuc begged, “Please! Mercy!”

Enjolras blocked it out, not looking up from his watch. If he dared to look at the man pleading for his life at his feet he feared his resolve might leave him. In the months that had come before Enjolras had often contemplated how he might feel when, inevitably, killing became a necessary instrument to progress. He had expected only to taste it in the heat of battle, not to perform an execution. But here before the Republic and the eyes of his comrades he was both judge and executioner for the people, and Le Cabuc had done the unforgivable.

He waited until the minute had passed, and then slipped the watch back into his waistcoat, seizing Le Cabuc roughly by the hair.

"Mercy!" the man cried.

Refusing to let himself delay even for a moment, Enjolras pressed the nose of his gun against the back of the man's ear and curled his finger on the trigger.

He fired.

The shot echoed through the deserted street, seeming to shake through the dormant houses, and then Le Cabuc fell limp at Enjolras' feet, body twitching in the last throes of death. There was silence as he straightened himself up, nudging the body to one side with his foot as though it were that of a rat and not a man.

“Dispose of this.” he said, voice far calmer than his racing heart. He could not quite believe he was capable of such violence.

Three men did as he said with the sort of haste that came from fear, and for a moment, Enjolras found he could not move, his gaze dropped solemnly to the blood running through the gaps of the cobbles. He had proven himself terrible before his friends.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and then lifted his head, “Citizens,” he shouted, “What that man did is horrible, and what I have done is awful. My hand was forced, for insurrection must have discipline, and so I judged and condemned that man to death. As for myself, compelled to do what I have done, but abhorring it, I have judged myself also, and soon you shall see to what I have sentenced myself.”

There was a quiet following his speech, and then Combeferre rose his voice, “We will share your fate.”

Enjolras looked at him, grateful, fingers starting to tremble around the gun, and nodded, “So be it.”

The group was dispersed, three sentries, Courfeyrac among them, taking their posts along the barricade as twilight began to fall.

They quickly became aware of an informant in their midst; Gavroche came to him and pointed the man out. He was haggard and severe, and showed no trace of fear when Enjolras confronted him. Enjolras could not help but admire this; he saw in the man the same passionate, absolute belief that he himself harboured, though they stood on opposite sides of the board. Within moments of the exchange the man had been thrown to the ground, hands bound behind his back, and searched. They found upon him his identification, watch and purse, and left him with the latter before binding him to a post in the lower room of the Corinth.

It was around this time that they heard the distant drumming of the National Guard.

“Coming from the street!” Courfeyrac called from his place atop the barricade, “To your positions!”

Enjolras ran forward, brandishing his musket. It was happening; until now, all of this had been a distant concept, but with the sound of steel-capped boots marching in formation echoing through Rue de la Chanvrerie, it was suddenly real. Enjolras looked along the barricade at the young men around him, the nervousness clear in their faces, their hands fumbling for their weapons. How many of them would leave this place?

The sound of marching grew louder, the drum beat coming to a sudden stop as they halted at the far end of the street. From the battalion of soldiers came a shout, a commanding officer; “Take aim!” and then, to the barricade, “Who goes there?”

Enjolras felt a surge of insolence. Gripping his musket tightly, he raised his voice and answered for his companions, “French Revolution!”

“FIRE!”

A volley of shots assaulted the barricade all at once. Enjolras dropped, ducking low behind the barricade and hearing bullets ricocheting over his head. Several of his those around him raised their weapons in panic.

“HOLD!” Enjolras commanded, “Save your ammunition!”

“The barricade will hold, friends,” Courfeyrac assured them, “Do not waste powder!”

The men listened, waiting with bated breath. Then came the order they had been dreading.

“ADVANCE!”

Almost immediately soldiers were upon them, scaling the barricade with their bayonets gleaming sharp and pointed downward. Enjolras fired blindly into the madness, dazed by the flashes of light and the sound of gunshots. The air smelt thick with gunpowder, almost choking, and around him he saw his companions fighting back the National Guard with anything at hand. Courfeyrac had found a sabre somewhere, and was using it to beat back two soldiers at once. Bahorel advanced, was shot, and fell dead before Enjolras could move to assist him.

“GET BACK!” a familiar voice sounded over the din, “GET BACK OR I BLOW THE BARRICADE!”

Enjolras looked up with surprise to see Marius, Courfeyrac's friend, had arrived at the barricade. He had seized the powder barrel that was being stored in the Corinth, and was holding a torch dangerously close to it. Everybody froze.

“Blow up the barricade?” sneered the commanding soldier, “And yourself with it!”

Marius met his gaze with a sort of glazed seriousness, “And myself with it.” he said coolly, bringing the torch closer still.

Seeing that it was not a bluff, the soldier raised his arm, “Fall back!” he said, “FALL BACK!”

Slowly, like cats slinking back into the shadows, the National Guard began to withdraw, back to the end of the street, outside the line of fire. Enjolras let out a heavy breath. The barricade was saved for now.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's right people; I'm editing this fic and adding quite a bit more. It's not finished being edited yet, so I'd suggest coming back to this fic in a few days.

“Prouvaire is missing,” Courfeyrac said gravely, when the chaos had died down and they had done a roll call.

“They must have him.”

Enjolras' heart sank to think of the young man in the charge of the National Guard, hands bound and spirit crushed, at the mercy of his captors. Jean Prouvaire was one of the best of them; the youngest, quiet and demure, seeming too soft for revolution but with the edge of a sword beneath his poetry. He was a doe with the teeth of a hound, and their dear friend.

“The spy,” Combeferre said, looking to Enjolras, “Is your heart truly set on his death?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, feeling sick, “But less so on that of Jean Prouvaire. We will offer an exchange of prisoners.”

Combeferre nodded, already moving to act, “I will tie my kerchief to my cane so that they know we wish to speak with them," he offered, "We will make a truce and then make the trade, our man for theirs.”

“Wait---” Enjolras held out his hand for silence; there was a loud clicking of weapons from the end of the street, and then the loud, spirited voice of Jean Prouvaire rose up.

“Long live France! Long live the future!”

There was a barrage of shots, the flash of musket fire, and then silence once more.

“They shot him.” Courfeyrac whispered, horrified, "They shot him!"

When night settled over them and people began to allow themselves the few hours of rest Enjolras had ordained to them, Enjolras found he could not allow it for himself. He sat isolated from the others save for Combeferre, shivering from a chill only he felt. There was blood on his kerchief, but it had not come from any injury. He looked at Combeferre weakly, "It is getting worse." he said.

"Can you still fight?"

Enjolras gave a grim nod, "I would have to be dead to surrender." he said. He looked over at the rest of the group, some of them passing around the rations of brandy and talking amongst themselves.

"They are still in good cheer," Combeferre remarked, "Even in grieving their friends. They have simply raised a toast to them and carried on." 

"If only I could join them," Enjolras said.

"Has Grantaire not woken?"

"No. And I will not do it myself." Enjolras mumbled, coughing into his kerchief, "If we are to all die here, let it take him in his sleep. He shouldn't have to witness these horrors. He never wanted a part in this; he volunteered to please me, but I should have never accepted. It is not in his nature." 

Combeferre patted his shoulder gently, "Do not trouble yourself with things that have passed." he said, "Try to rest what little you can."

“I will try,” Enjolras said, balling the kerchief up in his fist.

Combeferre glanced back at the Corinth; it looked like an empty shell, steeped in shadows, “But first you should wake him,” he said suddenly, turning to Enjolras, “I know you said you do not want to. But you will surely regret it if you do not.”

Enjolras looked down, “I do not know what I would say to him.”

“The words will come to you.” Combeferre said quietly, “But do not die angry with each other.”

Enjolras sighed, “I am not angry with him any more. I cannot be, not now...”

Combeferre shrugged, “You love him. It is my opinion that you ought not leave this world under such uncertain terms. If the two of you claim to be married in spirit and it turns out that there is indeed an afterlife then it will surely make matters uncomfortable for you both if you are still at odds,” he joked weakly.

Enjolras gave a sorrowful smile, “You may be right in that regard,” he said, looking over at their friends as they slept, exhausted, faces covered in blood and black powder.

“I will make sure no one follows you,” Combeferre promised, as though he could guess what he was thinking, “If anybody asks, I shall think of some reason for your absence.”

Enjolras nodded, kissing his cheek before getting to his feet and making his way into the bistro.

He found Grantaire where he had left him, though to his surprise he was now awake. He was sitting with his head in his hands, shivering a little from the chill in the room. Enjolras hesitated in the doorway, wondering if he should turn and leave before he saw him; he did not know what to say.

“Have you come to scold me again?” Grantaire's voice made him startle.

Enjolras swallowed hard. “No,” he said, “I have come to make peace.”

Grantaire shook his head, “I am not deserving of it after all I have done, and failed to do.” he muttered, “You ought to leave me; you surely have more important matters to attend to.”

Enjolras sighed, moving to stand in front of Grantaire's table, “No,” he said, “Not more important than this.”

“You are a benevolent god, Enjolras,” Grantaire laughed bitterly, “But I fear your forgiveness would be misplaced. I am not worthy of it.”

“Even so, I grant it.” Enjolras said simply, “It is not up to you whether or not I forgive you.”

Grantaire finally looked up at him, his eyes red and bleary, “Thank you, then.”

Enjolras nodded, adding more quietly, “Why did you go to Barriere Du Maine if you did not mean to win them back to our side, Grantaire?”

“I did mean to,” Grantaire argued, sounding genuinely remorseful, “I swear to you, Enjolras, I did mean to. I went with every intention of doing you proud. But I am a man of many vices; I drank, and before I knew it I had lost myself and all that I planned to do to the gin.” he shook his head, “I loathe myself for the way that I am. I am sorry. Did I not tell you that you loved a worthless man?”

Enjolras sighed, stuffing his kerchief into his pocket so Grantaire would not see the blood and sitting down on the edge of the table. He reached forwards to touch Grantaire's cheek, roughened by stubble. His explanation did not undo his guilt, but Enjolras found he could not hold a grudge against him. What good would it do now, under such dire circumstances? He was sorry, and that was enough.

“I forgive you.” he said, “I should not have sent you for the task; I should have turned down your offer. You are not a man of the revolution.”

“The fault is not yours, Enjolras,” Grantaire whispered, “Do not think that. There is no excuse for my actions. You placed your trust in me and I failed you horribly.”

“You did.” Enjolras admitted, “But I forgive you for it. We do not have enough time left for me to remain angry.”

Grantaire glanced up at him, touching his fingers to Enjolras' hand reverently, “I am still sorry, though.” he said, “I will die sorry for my actions.”

Enjolras leant across the table, kissing him gently on the forehead, “I said that I forgive you. Please accept that.”

Grantaire closed his eyes, breathing deeply, “I will try to.” he said, “I love you – I truly do. Sometimes I think that my love for you may be my only redeeming quality,” he remarked, leaning in to Enjolras' touch, “I think that though I have lived a sinful life, if there is a god and I am to stand before the gates of heaven, he may let me into paradise solely for how greatly I have loved you. Saint Peter would look upon me and say 'there is a wretch, a worm, a dog, but he has loved purely and deeply,' - nobody could ever doubt it. I am holy because of it.”

Enjolras let out a shaky breath, “I do not think I am bound for heaven, if such a place exists,” he said, feeling his stomach turn, “I killed a man earlier.”

Grantaire was thoughtful for a moment, running his fingers gently along Enjolras' in silent comfort, “Well then I suppose I shall have to tell Saint Peter where he can shove it, because I shall go wherever you do.”

Enjolras laughed; he could not help it. It was a broken, painful laugh that felt misplaced, but a laugh all the same.

Grantaire met his gaze at last, managing a small smile, “We have been through quite a lot together, have we not? It seems only right we should go through this together too.”

“Yes.” Enjolras agreed, “It is appropriate.”

“I am sorry that I reek of gin,” Grantaire murmured, prying Enjolras' hand from his cheek so that he could kiss his palm, “But would you kiss me, all the same? It might be our last.”

Enjolras did not need asking twice; he surged forwards to meet his lips, feeling Grantaire respond just as desperately. It felt to Enjolras that it were more than a kiss – it was a farewell. They both knew the odds were stacked against them. With every minute that dreamed-about future slipped further and further from their reach. Now all they had was right here, now, in a gloomy bistro that sat at the end of a street surrounded by members of the National Guard.

The kiss soon changed from tender to passionate, Grantaire rising from his seat to push Enjolras back onto the table, his intentions clear.

“You are drunk,” Enjolras argued, breathing heavily against his lips, “I told you, not when you are drunk...”

“I am not drunk,” Grantaire protested, “I am hungover. It is an entirely different beast,” he smiled, kissing him quickly, “My head feels as though it may explode, but I am of sound mind. I assure you that.”

“It is risky,” Enjolras said, “The rest of the men are asleep downstairs. The walls are thin.” despite his own words he did not offer any further resistance, instead sitting back on the table and holding Grantaire close by the collar of his shirt.

“I am a dying man – you are a priest of the Republic, are you not?” Grantaire jested, toying with the tricolour cockade on Enjolras' lapel, “You ought to give me my last rites...”

“If somebody hears us...”

“We don't have to.” Grantaire whispered, pausing for a moment, “If you do not want to, tell me to stop and I shall...”

Enjolras shook his head, “I want to,” he admitted.

Grantaire laughed, “You are terrible, sometimes,” he said, hands moving to Enjolras' hips, “Do not worry, my love – if somebody catches us, you can claim it was done out of panic. You can say you did not wish to die a virgin, and I was available and amenable to the idea of divesting you of the title. Men do crazy things when faced with their own mortality, afterall...”

It was a rushed affair; less lovemaking and more a frantic scramble to be close to each other for the last time, Enjolras muffling himself against Grantaire's shoulder.

When it was over they remained there for a moment, holding each other, Enjolras anchored by the feeling of Grantaire's fingers in his hair. He could feel tears running down his face.

“I am scared to die,” he admitted quietly, saying the words aloud for the first time. He felt Grantaire's arms tighten around him.

“I know.” Grantaire whispered.

 

* * *

 

As dawn broke the next day, sunlight spilling onto the street and gilding the vacant faces of the buildings, Enjolras looked around at those of them that were left. Their numbers had dwindled from fifty to barely thirty, their dead laid out inside the Corinth with what small dignity they could afford them. Combeferre and Joly were making their way among the wounded, doing what little they could with so few provisions. Enjolras had left Grantaire to his own devices upstairs; when he had pried himself free from him to take Courfeyrac's place as sentry the night before Grantaire had fallen asleep, and Enjolras had not had the heart to wake him.

“We will not last the day.” Enjolras said bluntly to Combeferre.

His friend shook his head gravely, wiping the blood from his hands with a rag, “No.” he said, “We won't." he agreed.

Enjolras closed his eyes, "I have led them all to their deaths..."

Combeferre lay one hand on his arm, "Not a man among us came unwillingly, Enjolras," he said, "They knew what the price might be and they agreed to pay it. Do not blame yourself." he hesitated, "Did you and Grantaire at least make peace?"

Enjolras nodded, "Yes." he did not elaborate; there was no need for Combeferre to know all that had passed between them.

His friend smiled sadly, "The barricade can only last out so long." he said, "There are fewer men to defend it now. The powder is wet from the rain; there's maybe twelve cartridges left for the lot of us. We will be dead before noon.”

Enjolras took a deep breath, “Very well then.” he stepped past him, taking a flag and climbing halfway up the barricade the address the group. During the long silence of the night all the hope had left them; he could almost see it physically draining from them, leaving their bodies through their darkened eyes and tired limbs.

“Citizens,” he said, “The barricade will not last much longer. Let all those who wish to leave, leave.”

There was a murmur of hesitation throughout the ranks.

“Let all those with families to support, leave,” Enjolras insisted, “Those with children or others depending upon them to put bread on their table. It is your duty to save yourself. The moment suicide touches the shoulder of another, it's name is murder. Leave.” he said, “I command it.”

A few men began to rise, trickling away through the back alleyways that were unlikely to be besieged due to their narrowness. Enjolras watched them go, standing firm, wishing almost that he could go to Grantaire and demand he leave also. He knew though that he would not go even if he ordered it.

He set the flag in an upturned drainpipe, so that it might stand tall, and gazed out at the men that remained, “We will not die here in vain. Graves may find us nameless, but history shall not. What comes here to die will be reborn again in the hearts of others!”

“Let's make sure they never forget us!” Courfeyrac yelled, raising his musket, “Let's give them hell whilst we're still breathing, eh?"

The words were met with a cheer that petered off, cut off by the sound of the National Guard approaching. The soldiers came in groups of five, lugging the huge brass bodies of cannons along with them, the wheels growling and groaning as they rumbled along the cobbled street. All at once the barricade was hushed into silence. Enjolras stepped down from his perch, looking from Courfeyrac to Combeferre.

“Everybody to their positions,” Combeferre ordered, and the men obliged, Enjolras included, all of them resting the noses of their muskets along the top of the barricade.

One of the gunners began to load the first cannon, and Enjolras, seeing a chance presented before him, clicked his weapon and took aim.

“Enjolras,” said Combeferre, who had come to crouch at his side, “You are aiming at that artillery guard, but you are not looking at him. He has a family. He is young, well educated. He is probably in love.” he frowned, “He could be your brother..."

Enjolras felt a horrible pull at his heart, “He is.” he said.

“And mine.” Combeferre lay a hand gently on his arm, “Let us not shoot him, then...”

“Leave me be,” Enjolras said hotly, “We must do what needs to be done.”

After executing Le Cabuc he had tried to clear his mind from killing. It was a means to an end, he told himself. Still, as he squeezed the trigger he felt a tear roll down his cheek, betraying his emotions. There was a crack, and the young artilleryman fell. His comrades ran to his side to pull him out of firing range, but Enjolras knew it was useless; the man was dead. The death bought them a measly few extra minutes; once it was done, Enjolras did not think it had been worth it.

For a while the barricade seemed as though it would hold out against the grapeshot; many times it hit, and many times the great blockade they had built did little more than shiver beneath it. Courfeyrac, full of good humour as always, swiftly took to mocking it.

“That was not cannon fire, that was a cough!” he yelled, and the rest of the barricade started to snigger, “The poor thing has a terrible cold!”

This small glimmer of amusement seemed to lend courage to those manning the barricade, and Enjolras could not have been more grateful to his friend for his cheer. If they despaired, they were lost. Another round of grapeshot; another shudder from the blockade.

“Bless you!” Bossuet called to the National Guard.

Infuriated by the derision, several of the soldiers pulled back the cannons to load them again.

“Do you think they are going to keep up with this all day?” Courfeyrac said to Enjolras, “I am growing old here, waiting for them to breach us! Look - I have found a grey hair!" he jested. Joly laughed.

"Are they not growing bored yet?" Bossuet said.

“I do not know. Get down.” Enjolras said, watching as the cannons were lit again with a vicious spark.

The was a beat of silence, and then they fired.

This time, the barricade did not tremble or lean.

This time the barricade yielded.

There was an explosion like a clap of thunder, splitting the air and shaking through the ground, and all at once a shower of splintered wood and debris rained down on them. Enjolras had barely a second to duck for cover, feeling something sharp whip against his cheek. His ears rang, and when he looked up again a whole section of the barricade had disappeared as though it had never been there in the first place.

The humour was dead in an instant, men running, scrambling past him with blood running down the sides of their faces, suddenly transfigured back into youthful schoolboys before Enjolras' eyes.

“GET DOWN!” a shout from somewhere in the chaos, a voice he could place as Feuilly; he obeyed, and a heartbeat later another round of grapeshot assaulted the barricade, shards of broken glass filling the smoky air as the café window behind Enjolras was blown out in an instant. The urge to close his eyes and hide took him, but then he heard the cries of those around him, and the feeling was gone.

He had been designated as their chief; he could not abandon them to fear.

He stood, keeping low, and surveyed the damage.

He could see bodies scattered in the wreckage, some rendered utterly unrecognisable from the blast. Grapeshot was not designed to kill - it was designed to annihilate, to wipe away all trace of it's victims, to reduce men to pulp. As he looked frantically around at the frightened faces, searching through the blood and the horror, he caught a familiar flash of fine burgundy waistcoat and saw Courfeyrac.

He was dead, for all Enjolras wanted to convince himself otherwise.

For a moment, Enjolras thought for certain that a piece of shrapnel must have pierced him in the chest, so visceral was the feeling of loss that took him; he could not fathom that his friend's bright, brilliant life had been extinguished in a mere flash of gunpowder and loose rubble.

 _I cannot leave him like this_ he thought, but as he made to move to Courfeyrac's body there was another cry; this time it came from the other side of the barricade.

“FORWARD! ADVANCE!”

All at once madness unfolded. It was as though the gates of hell had opened their jaws upon the small group of rebels; Enjolras seized his musket, finding he had no time to load it before the soldiers came charging through the path the grapeshot had cleared, some of them climbing over what remained of their blockade, their bayonets aimed down onto those taking cover there.

Enjolras threw down the musket and flung himself to the side as a soldier drove towards him, instead drawing his pistol from his sash and swinging the bronze butt of it against his attacker's head. The soldier staggered back, blood dripping from his wound, and in an instant Enjolras delivered a final blow. He watched him crumple to the ground, part of his face destroyed, and stop moving. He had no time to reflect on killing the man; more were filling the street, and in an instant the barricade was alive with flashes of light and the crack of gunfire from both sides.

Soldiers fell, their neat uniforms soaked red, and schoolboys too, screaming, crying for their mothers and loved ones. Enjolras watched as some of the insurgents began to flee inside the bistro, and made the decision to join them, hoping, praying it might be able to provide his companions some kind of protection.

He ran, stumbling over bodies, some of which he recognised. He saw Joly among the dead, and Bossuet and Feuilly also, and prayed that they were truly dead; the idea that they might be alive and he could not pause to help them was unthinkable.

He reached the broken doors to the Corinth and looked back to see Combeferre; ever the doctor, his friend had lifted a wounded soldier up by the waist, and was trying to drag the young man to safety when one of the soldier's comrades saw him. Enjolras opened his mouth to shout a warning, but before the words could leave his lips the soldier had driven his bayonet through his chest.

Once, twice, three times Enjolras watched, helpless, horrified, as Combeferre was killed.

For a moment the world stopped. Combeferre had been a constant in his life, and, in less than a heartbeat, he was gone. He had died as he had lived; trying to help. Enjolras wondered if seeing so many of his friends dead the fight would suddenly seep out of him and he would be inclined to surrender. But then he thought of the others still alive in the Corinth, and a hateful fire in his chest was fanned into an inferno.

He dropped his father's flintlock and grabbed a still loaded carbine from the hands of a dead soldier, bringing it up against his shoulder. He aimed, fired, and hit the National Guardsman who had run his bayonet through Combeferre. He watched him die, felt nothing, and wondered fleetingly if it were sacrilege for a priest of the revolution to want such an ugly thing as revenge. But more young men were running past him, and he had no time to think about it.

“FALL BACK!” He cried, suddenly finding his voice again; his throat was hoarse from smoke, and he could feel blood against his cheek, though he could not even be sure it was his own.

“FALL BACK! BARRICADE THE DOOR!”

Even amid disaster some of the men seemed to come to their senses hearing Enjolras' words, rallying behind their chief and finding large pieces of wood to cover the door with as the last few men, Enjolras among them, poured into what remained of the Corinth. Enjolras was almost inside when he heard a gunshot close to his left and turned to see Marius collapse, surely dead. There was no time to check.

The doors, their windows long obliterated by grapeshot, were barely hanging onto their hinges, but still they barred them with whatever they could find, Enjolras helping to push back soldiers with the end of the carbine he had just seized. Shots came through the wood, indiscriminately striking down many of those trapped inside. Bodies dropped like flies, some reeling back with shouts of pain.

“UP THE STAIRS!” Enjolras yelled, feeling his curls clinging to his face, sticky with sweat and blood.

Upstairs offered little cover, but the paving slabs and bottles he'd ordered to be stored there were better than nothing. He was the last up the stairs, and the first to see as the National Guard broke through the doors. His companions hacked at the stairs with axes, sword-sticks, anything sharp that they could find, determined to buy themselves a few more minutes.

One soldier made it almost to the top of the stairs as this was happening, but Enjolras raised up his carbine and brought it crashing down onto the top of his skull, his grief and fear lending him strength and rage he didn't know he had. There was a sickening crack as the soldier dropped, and Enjolras saw blood and brains on the wooden floor below. His carbine was in fragments, broken as it had connected with bone.

Any trace of valour or courage in the room had deserted, and a frantic, dangerous terror, like that of a cornered animal had taken hold. Enjolras looked around him, wondering how many of the bloody, exhausted young men around him had gone to the barricades out of belief as strong as his, and how many of them he had won to the cause with his rhetoric who might otherwise not have been there. He wondered if it was he who had pushed any of them towards their deaths in this cramped, lonely room without any exits.

Below them the Natural Guard reassembled, loading their guns. The insurgents rained down bottles and stones, a last desperate effort to defend themselves against impossible odds. There was a command, and more shots, more cries. Enjolras reeled back, smoke stinging his eyes. The shots passed and suddenly it was quiet.

Enjolras looked around him and realised that he was alone, untouched in a room full of corpses. He could not help but think of his nightmare many weeks back.

The bottles were all spent, and there was no more ammunition. He had nothing, save for the remains of the carbine in his hand.

He stepped back into the corner as he heard the soldiers thunder up what was left of the stairs, a group of a dozen of them filing into the upstairs room, bedraggled and vengeful. His heart was pounding, but an absurd sense of calm had come over him. All fear had abandoned him. With blood on his hands, he told himself this was a better death than he deserved. He would not have to waste away to his sickness.

“It's him! The chief!”

“It's he who killed the artilleryman!”

“Well, he's set himself up for us!”

Enjolras raised his chin defiantly, throwing down the carbine and folding his arms across his chest. “Shoot me.” he challenged.

Several of them took aim.

“Wait!” their commanding officer raised a hand to stop them. He looked to Enjolras, and Enjolras fancied he saw a flicker of respect in his eyes, “Do you wish to be blindfolded?”

“No.”

“Is it really you who shot the artillery guard?”

“Yes.”

The commanding officer nodded, signalling with his hand again, “Take aim, men!”

Enjolras looked them head on as they took their positions. As they did, one lowered his gun, hesitant, “I feel as though I would be shooting a flower.” he said.

Enjolras felt his stomach twist slightly, a flicker of fear re-entering his heart. _Do not be taken alive..._

But before anything else could be said a lone voice rose from the back of the room, commanding the attention of the firing squad.

“LONG LIVE THE REPUBLIC!”

Enjolras felt all the breath leave his lungs. Grantaire had been sleeping at the table at the back, but in the madness Enjolras had not thought to look for him there. He stood now, cutting as certain a figure as any other revolutionary as he stared down the National Guard. There was something about him in that moment that Enjolras found awe-inspiring. There was no trace of the cynic that had failed him at Barriere Du Maine; the non-believer was dead, his whole soul transformed. To see him now, any man in the room would have thought him to be the cheif's most loyal companion, as charged for revolution as he himself. 

“Long live the Republic!” he said again with a proud ferocity, “I am one of them!”

He made his way across the room, his eyes never once leaving Enjolras as he stepped over bodies. He stopped at his side, turning to the soldiers that had cornered Enjolras.

“Finish us both in one,” he begged, and then turned to him, eyes full of warmth.

“Do you permit it?” he asked, voice gentle. It was much in one; an apology, steeped with regret, and a throwback to the beginning of their story, when he would mutter those words to him reverently before kissing him and Enjolras would respond with a desperate 'yes!'. He wished he could do so now; wished he could throw his arms around Grantaire and tell him how happy he was to die beside him. But there were twelve loaded muskets pointed towards them, and their time was running short. 

A strange kind of peace settled over Enjolras; the feeling of loneliness abandoned him, and, in spite of everything, he felt safe.

He reached, taking Grantaire's hand, lacing their fingers tightly together. He could not find it in him to speak - they did not have the time - but he felt the corners of his lips turn up into a smile. He squeezed his hand, the only gesture of love he could muster. With all that had happened, Enjolras found that he could not regret a single moment of it. Their eyes met, and in his last moment Enjolras wondered if they would meet again in some other life. 

The report sounded.


End file.
